Can't find my way home
by pinkskyline
Summary: AU teen story about Sam and Dean being raised by John in Lawrence. John thinks his wife died on the ceiling of Sam's nursery while a demon fed Sam his blood to make him evil. Dean thinks John's crazy, but could his father be right? Things happen that make Dean question his father's sanity, and his own: like meeting an angel. But one thing's for sure-Dean won't let John hurt Sammy.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: Parental abuse.

Dean looked at his friend Andrew with regret, closing his locker and walking towards the school parking lot. "I can't do it," he said. The halls were mostly empty of students and only a few teachers were wondering around here and there.

"What do you mean?" Andrew said, following him. "You're the only one whose Dad lets him have the car, and what a car! You never drive us anywhere in the impala. And don't say it's because your Dad won't let you go because your Dad lets you do whatever you want."

"That's because he's Daddy's good little soldier," Sam said. Dean hadn't seen his brother walk up. He didn't mind Sammy teasing him—god knows he'd said worse to his brother.

"You could give the constant back talk a rest you know, Sammy," he said.

"Yeah, that's what Ms. Graham said to you this morning, Dean. How is it that you're the good kid at home and the badass at school?" Andrew asked.

"And how is it that Dad doesn't mind you getting into fights and getting suspended, but he freaks when I stay late for science club?" Sam muttered.

"Dad and I have an agreement," Dean said. He said it with typical arrogance, trying to sound like a guy who'd worn his father down with his constant misbehaviour and negotiated some kind of a truce, not like one who got away with a lot because his father was so guilty about asking Dean to practically raise his brother and…well, a lot of other crap.

"Come on, Dean. It's free tickets! And I know you like Pearl Jam, even though they don't pass your whole classic rock test or whatever…please? I'll have to give the tickets away if I can't get a ride," Andrew said.

"What are you doing on the fifteenth, Sam?" Dean asked.

"I don't know. Just a regular night I guess," Sam said.

Dean thought for a minute, standing beside the impala. "I can't," he finally said.

"Are you seriously not going to go because you don't want Dad and me to fight?" Sam asked, rolling his eyes. "It's not like the world ends if we get into an argument."

Andrew was familiar with Dean's preoccupation with protecting his brother. He knew better than to argue with Dean about it. "What if we took Sam with us?" he asked.

Dean smiled, getting into the car. "Then I guess you might have a ride," he said.

"Winchester, you are awesome! Weird, but awesome! See you tomorrow," Andrew said.

"You didn't have to do that," Sam said. "I'm not even in high school yet. Your friends aren't going to want me along."

"My friends want a ride, and so they'll suck it up," Dean said, beginning to drive home. He usually was a bit more subtle about avoiding leaving his brother alone with his father, but he'd kind of been put on the spot just then. He hoped it would be easier when Sam was in high school with him next year…and maybe Sam would move in with him after Dean graduated the year after that. He didn't know how to broach that subject with either Sam or his Dad, but he was convinced it was the best thing for his brother, and maybe even for his father. If Dean couldn't get Sam out of the house he was seriously considering failing a few classes on purpose so he wouldn't graduate on time.

"You're too protective of me. I can take care of myself," Sam said.

"Sammy, are you seriously going to bitch-face at me because I got you free tickets to go see Pearl Jam?" Dean asked in exasperation.

"No," Sam said, laughing. "Thanks man."

"Stick with me, kid," Dean said. He turned the car into the driveway, wondering what he'd find when he walked in the front door.

John was sitting at the kitchen table, a sour look on his face. It wasn't promising. When he was watching a ballgame sometimes he was easier to deal with, at least as long as his team won.

"Why are you home?" Sam asked.

Dean winced. "Go upstairs and do your homework, Sammy," Dean said.

"I can't answer my own son's question?" John asked Dean, his tone surly.

"Yeah, Dean, I was just asking—"

"Now Sammy," Dean said.

Sammy went upstairs resentfully, and Dean turned to his father. "Did you get laid off again?" he asked.

"You know they can't always keep a guy on for the whole year. It's been rough out there. Less work all around," he said defensively.

Dean ran his fingers through his spikey hair. He didn't bring up the fact that John was a class "A" mechanic and every garage in town would fight for the chance to employ him if he wasn't a drunk who barely showed up for work and acted like an angry bear when he was sober. "Maybe Bobby has some work. Have you talked to him?"

"They just told me today, Dean. Just give me a minute to catch my breath," he said. "Hey, have a seat. Have a beer with your old man."

"I don't know, Dad. We need to talk about this. Do we have money for rent this month?"

"You're such an old man, Dean. If you're going to make me talk to you about this stuff, at least have a beer with me," John slurred.

Dean sighed and got himself a beer, passing one to his father as he went by. He took a pull of the beer, wondering with trepidation why his father was so insistent about it. "So? We need rent money?"

"I think we'll be a little short," John said.

"I'll go over to Stillwater and find a card game. Don't worry about it," Dean said. He paused, and then reluctantly continued, "You know, I'm seventeen. I could quit school and get a job."

"You think I can't take care of my family?" John asked, his voice deceptively soft.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant I could help out more. I don't even have to quit school—just a part time job," Dean said quickly.

John had a hard glint in his eye that Dean recognized. Strangely, even though Dean knew he could beat the crap out of his father, he felt the same stirring of fear in his belly he'd known since he was ten years old. The fear was something left over, because he knew that if he didn't take whatever punishment his father was going to give him, John would just go hurt Sammy. So he wasn't afraid of the pain, he welcomed it, because it was pain Sammy wouldn't have to feel. Dean had been so good at bearing the brunt of and hiding his father's bullying that Sam didn't even know it was happening, and he couldn't ever learn about it. Sam was a happy, well-adjusted kid, and that was how it was going to stay.

"Dad—" Dean began in a placating tone.

"—Get me a beer, son," John growled, interrupting.

Dean got up, knowing this was a trap. He walked slowly, trying not to tense his muscles or brace for impact. John would only get angry if he thought Dean was expecting a sucker punch. The punch was a devastating kidney shot which had Dean down on one knee in seconds. Luckily John rarely beat Dean up. He never lost control when he "disciplined" his eldest son. He just hit him, hard, in a place where no one would ever see, to let him know who was boss every now and again.

Dean took a couple of deep breaths and then got to his feet, remembering to bring his father that beer. "What do you want me to cook for supper, Dad?" he asked.

For a moment John looked completely stricken, and Dean realized he had recovered too quickly, and was looking his father in the eye without bitterness or reproach. His father liked to think the times he hit his son were rare, but Dean had just shown his father that he was used to it, and could live with it.

John mustn't have liked the resignation he could see in his son's eyes, because he left the house and didn't return for two days.

Dean didn't know what to do. Usually if his father went missing he ended up getting a call late that night to come pick him up. Despite the fact that he wasn't much of a caretaker for his kids, John had never left them for the whole night. Dean knew he couldn't call the cops, because he didn't want them to call child protective services on him and Sam. He'd be alright; he was old enough to live on his own, but Sam was still vulnerable.

He was surprised and a little bit pleased when John came home two days later cleaned up and sober. He had a couple of month's rent in his pocket and a new junker was delivered shortly after he pulled in the drive.

"Where'd you get the money?" Dean asked.

"You think you're the only one who can find a card game? I taught you how to play," John said.

"Alright, alright, relax old man. What are you going to do with that old junker?" Dean asked. He was hoping his father would say that it was going to be his after John fixed it up.

John smiled secretively. "I'm going to fix her up. See what she's made of."

"That's awesome, Dad. Do you mind if I take the impala this morning?" he asked.

"Can we pick Jason up on the way?" Sam asked, clomping his way down the stairs.

"Yeah, Dean, you can have the car. In fact, I was going to wait until you were eighteen, but I can't do it. I didn't buy the truck for you, Dean. I bought it for me. The impala's yours," John said.

It should have been the happiest moment in Dean's young life, but all he could think of was the fact that if he took the gift it was like saying that what John did to him was okay; it was like saying he forgave him for the casual cruelty that he sometimes meted out. He looked at his brother Sammy and couldn't find a way to refuse the gift without tipping him off to the fact that there was something seriously wrong between Dean and his father.

He found himself grinning and walking across the room to his father. His father hugged him tightly, and Dean knew this was all the apology he was ever going to get.

"We're taking the long way to school, Sammy," Dean said, grinning.


	2. Chapter 2

"I love your dad's car," Andrew said. Dean had picked him up on the way, and he was sitting shotgun with Sam and Sam's friend Jason in the back.

"It's Dean's car, now," Sam said gleefully, as if he shared in the gift with his brother, which, Dean mentally conceded, he did.

"What?" Andrew asked.

"Yeah, my Dad gave her to me this morning," Dean said.

"What, why? Is it your birthday or something?" Andrew asked.

"The car was always going to be Dean's when he turned eighteen. Dad told me _years_ ago. I've kept that secret _forever_. He said he just couldn't wait anymore," Sam bragged.

Andrew smiled over at Dean and then looked back at Sam. "And how do you feel about Dean getting the coolest thing your Dad owns? Why shouldn't you get it when you turn eighteen?"

"Dean deserves it. He does a lot for our family," Sam said.

Dean shifted uncomfortably and Andrew looked at Dean thoughtfully. "Yeah, he's a good big brother."

"You're here, kiddies. Vamos," Dean said, pulling up to the middle school which stood a short distance from the high school.

"Your Dad seriously gave you this car, free and clear?" Andrew asked.

"Yep," Dean said shortly. He parked the car and they got out, walking into the school, which was already filling with students.

"Why aren't you stoked about this?" Andrew asked.

"Are you kidding? Of course I'm stoked about it," Dean said.

"You've loved that car for your entire life, and now it's yours outright, and it's like you're pissed off about it. What'd he do? Did he say something to Sam?" Andrew asked.

"Jesus, Andrew, what's with the chick flick? I don't really want to talk about my feelings, alright?"

"I know your Dad does these grand gestures when he's pissed you off or forced you to take care of Sam for days on end. Remember when he wanted to take you to California after he forgot your birthday?"

"Look, I deserve the car, alright? My Dad's put me through a lot of shit and I've put up with a lot of shit and I've done stuff and worried about things kids my age shouldn't worry about. I've made Sammy dinner almost every night since I was ten. Sorry if I think I should be able to get the one thing I've ever asked for without fawning all over my Dad in gratitude. Like Sammy said, the car's mine and I deserve it."

"I never said you didn't deserve it. Is that what's bothering you?"

"Seriously? Are you taking estrogen or something? Look, my Dad just lost his job, okay? I'm going to go see Bobby and ask him if Dad can come back for a while. Old man's actually sober these days, so there's a chance," Dean said.

"I thought Bobby said if he saw John back there he'd get out his shotgun," Andrew said.

"I can sweet talk Bobby. He's a softy at heart," Dean said, smiling.

"No, he's a gruff old bastard who just happens to love you like a son," Andrew said.

"I can't help being lovable," Dean said.

"Boys, get to class. First bell's gone already," Mr. Johnson said.

Dean couldn't help the momentary panic that flickered over his eyes as the started walking toward their first class. "How long was he standing there?" Dean whispered to Andrew.

"He just poked his head out of the classroom door, but I guess he could have been listening the whole time. I didn't notice his door was open," Andrew said.

"This is bad," Dean said.

"What, you think he'll think you're, like, being abused or something? It wouldn't matter if they investigated your Dad, though, because he's an alright Dad, isn't he?" Andrew asked.

"It's not what I think that matters. Ten year olds aren't supposed to be responsible for making dinner for the sibs. I'm too old for anyone to be concerned about…but I don't know what I'd do if anyone tried to mess with Sammy," Dean said.

"Yeah," Andrew said, "I don't know what you'd do, either. I think the question might be what you wouldn't do."

* * *

Dean found Bobby, or rather his feet, poking out from underneath an old nova in the back yard of the salvage shop.

"You asleep down there?" Dean asked in his deepest, most manly voice.

He scooted out from under the car. "Now, why would'ya come up to a man under a car and—oh, it's you," Bobby said.

"The one and only," Dean said.

"Yer Daddy ain't with'ya, is he?" Bobby asked.

"No," Dean said.

When he knew John wasn't around the frost fell out of his manner and he took Dean's forearm, leading him into the house. "Come on in and have a lemonade with me."

"You know my Dad lets me have beer," Dean said.

"This ain't a frat house. Besides, you drove here, didn't ya? And by my reckoning, you're nowhere near twenty-one," Bobby said.

"A lemonade sounds great," Dean said, smiling and holding the door open for his friend.

"Just what have you been up to lately, Winchester?" Bobby asked.

"Oh, you know. School. Taking care of Sammy. Dad gave me the impala. I'm going to take it to the city for a Pearl Jam concert in a couple of weeks," Dean said.

"Good. And how's that father of yours?"

Dean paused, knowing he was about to be called an idjit. "He lost his job."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I don't even want you to say it, Dean. Don't even think it. I'll never have him work for me again. He took on after that boy—wasn't much older than you—and beat him up so bad the boy should have pressed charges. I can't have someone like that working for me. I need people I can trust."

"I know you got him not to press charges and I know it was for Sammy and me. I don't know why I came here, today. I knew I couldn't change your mind about John," Dean said, his voice small.

"Is there anything you want to tell me about? You can talk to me about anything, you know that, right?" Bobby asked.

Dean looked past Bobby, his eyes unfocused. "You remember that time we played catch in the park?" he asked, smiling.

"Dammit, boy! Why are you acting like you're never going to see me again?"

"I didn't mean—it's just a good memory, is all."

"Listen, I don't want your Dad here, but I wouldn't mind if _you_ started working here. I remember you used to be pretty good with your hands. I could teach you some things on the weekends, and then if you like it, I could send you to school. I'd make you my apprentice," Bobby said.

"Really?" Dean asked. He knew Bobby liked him but he had never imagined that he would do something like this for him.

"I don't know anyone more responsible your age. I trust you. And by the time Sam's ready to go to college, you could help him pay for it," Bobby said.

Dean felt his face colouring. He never knew how to deal with compliments or take gifts. "I'd like that. The only thing is, Dad won't let me get a job. He always says he can take care of our family just fine. And I don't want Sammy to have to spend the whole weekend alone with Dad. Not while Dad's out of work, anyway. They aren't getting along too well."

"Did I say I was gonna pay you, ya idjit? I'll pay your education, and when you're my apprentice, you'll get a wage. But until you're done high school, you'll be my, let's call it, intern," Bobby said. "And as for Sam, hell, the library's just down the road, or he can hang out in the house. That boy wouldn't get up to any mischief in there, unlike some people I know," he said, looking at Dean significantly.

Dean found, to his embarrassment, he was practically in tears. He hadn't realized until now how little_ he_ wanted to spend weekends with his Dad when his Dad was off work. "When can I start?" he asked.

"Don't you want to clear it with your Daddy?"

"I'll make him understand how much it means to me," Dean said. "Thank you. You won't regret this."

Bobby gave him a long look. "Part of me already does," he said.

Dean laughed, knowing Bobby didn't mean a word of it. "Can I come this Saturday?"

"Sure. You won't be so eager after you've been my bitch for the entire weekend."

"I knew there was another word for intern," Dean said.

"Take care of yourself, boy," Bobby said.

* * *

"He's not even paying me, Dad. But if I learn enough by the time I graduate I can be his apprentice and he'll send me to school and I can be a real mechanic," Dean said.

"You know you could be my apprentice just as easily," John said.

"I've looked it up," Dean said cautiously. "You have to be employed at a licenced shop. You can't just have an apprentice if you work out of your house."

"Oh, I didn't know that," John mumbled.

Dean grappled for something to say that would make him feel better. He hated when his Dad felt bad about himself because that was when John struck out at people who couldn't or wouldn't fight back, like him. "It's better this way, anyway. If I was your apprentice everyone at the shop where you were working would call it favouritism or something. You know, because I'm your son."

"You're probably right," John said.

"So can I do it, Dad?"

John looked momentarily annoyed. "I didn't get the impression you were asking me."

"Well, I pretty much decided I'm going to do it. But I'd like your advice. And your blessing."

John's expression softened. "Of course. It's a great opportunity, and if the old bastard didn't hate me so much I'd take him out for a beer to thank him. I'm just sorry I won't be able to see you that much. I guess Sammy and I will have to bond while you're gone."

_Not if I have anything to say about it_, Dean thought to himself, but he remained silent. This conversation had gone a lot better than he had thought it was going to, and he wasn't going to sabotage himself by bringing up the arrangement he'd made with Bobby.

He'd have that conversation when he needed to, and not a moment sooner.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean heard his name on announcements and went to the office at the end of class.

The secretary smiled at him. "Your dad called, Dean. He said you didn't need to pick up your brother. He went home sick this morning."

Dean nodded, wondering if he could get away with just going home now. He looked up and saw Mr. Johnson was in the office. If he had heard when Dean and Andrew had said the other day…and if he saw that Dean didn't want Sam to be alone with his father…he just had to trust his dad with Sammy for the rest of the day. It was just one more period.

When he got home he was surprised to see Sam red-faced and headed for the shower, a miserable look on his face. "What happened?" he asked.

"I guess Dad figured I was sick enough to take out of school but not so sick I could get out of doing like a thousand push ups and some hand to hand training," Sam said.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked.

"I feel like I'm going to hurl. I already did, at school," Sam said. "I made it to the bathroom, thank god."

"Get in the shower, and then get into bed. I'm going to get you some Gatorade and soup. I bet you haven't had enough fluids today," Dean said.

Sam nodded his head wearily and went into the bathroom.

Dean went into the kitchen and got a Gatorade out of the fridge.

There must have been an accusing look on his face, because John, who was sitting at the kitchen table, asked, "You got something to say about the way I take care of my son?" when he saw Dean.

"No. Just getting Sammy a drink," Dean said.

"Dean, there's just something not right about that boy," John said confidentially.

"Not right?" Dean asked warily.

"He's…he's strong, you know? And he's going to be tall, too," John said.

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. "I'm tall and strong, too. Must be in the genes."

"No, son, you're good. You're just bone-deep good, Dean. Sam—son, I think Sam is evil," John said, looking around fearfully.

Dean went cold all over. "Sam isn't evil, Dad. He's just a little kid. He's never even skipped school or kissed a girl. He's not evil."

"No, no. Of course he's not," John said. "But the way he exercised today…he was sick, tired…and he fought like a…like a demon…"

"He just wanted to impress you," Dean said. "He wants you to be proud of him. He loves you so much."

John looked at Dean flatly. "No, Dean. Sam doesn't love me at all. You're the only one who loves me."

Dean didn't know what to say. His worries about his father had just gone from manageable to absolutely paralyzing in seconds.

* * *

"What are you doing in the library?" Andrew asked.

"What do you care?" Dean asked.

"You were going to drive me to get pizza. I was waiting by the car—Jen Fitzgerald was, too," Andrew said.

"I swear sometimes I think you only love me for my car," Dean said.

"Can you blame me?"

Dean didn't reply. He was looking up paranoid schizophrenia. It really seemed to fit with his father's symptoms—but how could he get his father help without getting Sammy shoved into foster care?

But if his father ever hurt Sam, thinking he was doing a good thing because Sam was evil—well, then being in foster care had to be better than your own father doing that, right?

"What are you looking up?"

"Schizophrenia," Dean said.

"You doing a report for a class or something?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. He printed off the pages. Maybe if he told his father he was worried about him, then he could get help. No one had to know he was sick if he listened to Dean and got help. Child Protective Services wouldn't be informed if his Dad was diagnosed with a mental illness—or he didn't think they would be.

Now all he had to do was get his Dad to be reasonable…

* * *

John was working in the garage on his new truck. Seeing him sober and industrious made Dean wonder if he maybe he had imagined John asking if Sam was evil. He was going to accuse his father of being severely mentally ill just because of one conversation? His Dad hadn't smoked dope in years—that he knew of, anyway—but maybe he'd been high or something.

Dean chatted with his father for a while and then found he couldn't have the talk he about mental illness with John after all. He seemed so good, and normal.

But Dean had to protect Sam, so he didn't forget what he'd heard. He decided to do laundry so he could go through his father's pockets. He found out his father had gone to Stillwater for that poker game, and he'd also gone to see a psychic, if the card for Mistress Meghan was any indication.

Dean knew he had to go and see what his father had discussed with the psychic. If it was about Sam—well, seeing a psychic could feed his delusions.

The card was purple with pink stars and non-threatening enough, but Dean didn't want to go to Stillwater alone. He knew he could take Sam, but he'd have to wait for him to get home from his friend's house, and then his little brother would have to wait in the car, and he didn't know the kind of neighbourhood the psychic's place was in…Reluctantly, Dean decided to call Andrew.

His friend was up for a drive and Dean picked him up on the way out of town. Dean didn't say much about why he needed to go see a psychic, and Andrew didn't ask. A few times before Dean had had to go to Stillwater to pay his father's debts, so that's probably what Andrew thought he was doing.

The shop was in a step-up shop on top of a convenience store, in a pretty crappy part of town. Dean was glad he hadn't brought Sammy. He left his friend listening to Zeppelin and went up the rickety stairs to the shop. The room he entered was pink-tinted from the neon sign that said Mistress Meghan that Dean had seen from the street, but otherwise looked remarkably unremarkable for a psychic's place of business. There was some worn furniture and a frayed lamp off to one side, and some crystals and statues of saints in a display case in the corner, and no proprietor to be seen.

"Hello?" Dean called.

"Well, aren't you handsome," a woman said. She was probably in her twenties, blonde and pretty, wearing skinny jeans and a tight, flowery and revealing shirt that strained over her frankly awesome breasts.

Dean felt tempted to flirt, but he was too worried to do much more than smile at her. "I really hope you can help me. Are you, um, Mistress Meghan?"

"I sure am, handsome. How can I help you?"

"I think my father came here recently. I was hoping you could tell me what the two of you talked about. I'm…I'm really worried about him," Dean said.

"That's too bad," she said. "He handsome like you?"

"This is his picture," Dean said.

Her face immediately fell. "I was hoping a kid like you was coming in to find out what Daddy was getting him for graduation. But you got reason to worry."

"He was here? Can you tell me what the two of you talked about?"

Meghan smiled a little sadly. She sat down on a worn out sofa and gestured for Dean to sit down opposite her. "It's not like there are ethical standards for psychics, but I usually don't talk about what's been said in a session. I will make an exception in this case, however. Your dad, his name's John, right?"

"Yeah, John Winchester," he said eagerly.

"He's been here a couple of times. The first couple of times he came he said he was investigating a fire," she said.

"My mother's death," Dean murmured.

"How did she die, if you don't mind me asking?"

"There was a fire in the house that night. Faulty wiring…My dad wasn't home. My brother was just a baby…all I remember is my mother going into my brother's nursery—he was just six months old, and that's where the fire started—and she picked him up and gave him to me and told me to run outside. I don't know what happened to her…why she didn't make it outside…"

Meghan was nodding slowly. "He told me he was home when the fire struck. He said he was asleep downstairs when he heard a scream—he went upstairs and saw his wife on the ceiling, her stomach cut open, and then the whole ceiling erupted into flames."

Dean felt his eyes widen. "He believes that?"

"He said he gave your brother to you and tried to rescue your mom but the flames were too thick. He said he went to a psychic a few weeks after that, and she said that the reason your mother had been killed was because a demon had broken into the room and fed your brother blood so he would serve the devil. Your mother had walked in and tried to stop it, and the demon had killed her."

"Do you think he ever saw a psychic?" Dean asked.

"Lots of psychics are frauds, but I don't think_ anyone_ would tell a client _that_…I believe in this stuff, you know. Angels, the saints, ghosts…but that story scared me. I'm glad it's not true," she said. "Lots of psychics try to tell clients they're cursed by evil so they need charms or medals or something. Maybe he went to someone like that and turned what they said into this…grand…"

"Delusion," Dean whispered. He cleared his throat nervously, increasingly glad that his brother was staying over at Jason's house. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"He had lots of questions. The last time he came to see me he asked me if his son Sam was evil. He asked me if…if he was the antichrist. He wondered if Sam was even his son at all," she said.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him his son was a good boy who loved him very much. I said he loved science and was respectful and kind. I wasn't even bullshitting, that's what I picked up about Sam," she said.

"He does love science," Dean said. He took her card and turned it over, writing his name and number on the back. "Can you call me if he comes back?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," she said, looking at what he had written. "But Dean, he didn't seem like he would ever come back. I wasn't…confirming what he thought. He seemed discouraged when he left here."

"Just let me know if he comes back, and what he's thinking," Dean said.

Meghan nodded, and went to the cabinet behind her. "Here, take this. It's a medal of Saint Jude. Patron saint of desperate situations. No charge."

"I'm not really religious," Dean said.

"Take it, please?" she asked. "I know I wasn't any real help. I wish I could do something. I guess—if you wanted me to call someone…report him…I could do that, now I know his full name."

"For now, no. But I may need you to do that later—if things get, you know…" he said. He pocketed the metal.

It felt strangely powerful in his pocket.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was quiet on the way home.

"Anything I should know?" Andrew asked.

"What?"

"Are your chakras out of alignment or something?"

"I didn't go to her about—I wanted to know why my dad had seen her," he said.

"Your dad goes to psychics?"

"I know, who knew, right?" Dean asked. "Thanks for coming with me. I don't feel like talking, though. I just want to…think…is that alright?"

"Sure Dean. But why are you so fixated on your dad right now? I mean, has he…has he ever hurt you?"

Dean looked at Andrew. He knew he should probably tell his friend the truth, in case something happened, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything yet. He wanted to talk to his father…hear his side, or whatever… "I don't want to talk," he said softly, and he turned up the music.

That night Dean found his father to be in a pretty good mood. He was watching a game on the television, and Dean waited until it was over to talk to his dad.

He sat down when the game rapped up and turned to his father. "Dad, can you tell me more about…about what you said before, about Sammy?"

John immediately looked more alert—even shifty. "I don't know what you mean."

"You told me you thought he was evil," Dean said.

"I don't really believe that. I mean, I think most parents think their teenagers are evil every once and a while, but Sammy's a good kid," John said.

Dean smiled at this attempt at humour, but persisted with his line of questioning. "Dad, please. Tell me the truth. I know about what you think happened to mom and why. I went to that psychic you saw and talked to her. She told me you think Sam's the antichrist."

John had stilled completely, and was so eerily still that Dean was alarmed, and felt his heart hammer in his chest. "You spied on me? You followed me?" John rasped.

"I found her card in the laundry. She told me everything, Dad. You need to get help. Please, for me," Dean said.

"For _you_?" John spat. "But you're just like _them_. Like all of them." He looked at his son in disgust and Dean felt tears come to his eyes. John seemed to soften at this evidence of emotion in his son, and then he sat up abruptly, knocking over a lamp and flailing around in alarm.

"What is it, Dad?" Dean asked.

"You're not him! You're not my son. Dean wouldn't spy on me. Dean loves me. You've…your eyes are black! That means you're a demon," John said.

"Dad, it's me, please, don't call me a demon."

"I have a special knife—but I can't kill you. I can't. Not while Dean is still alive. Get out of him! Get out of him right now or I'll make you feel pain like you've never felt pain before," John said.

"Dad, I'm your son! Please don't do anything," Dean pleaded.

John attacked Dean, beating him viciously. He hit him in the face and body mostly, making each punch brutally efficient but being sure to do no permanent damage. Dean tried to hit back, but he was so upset, and his dad was so frenzied that he didn't fight very well. Finally John stopped. He started chanting in Latin and then threw what seemed to be water on Dean's prone form.

He looked at Dean and put his hands on either side of Dean's bloody face.

"Did you see it? The smoke left you," he said. "The demon's gone."

Dean winced in pain, trying not to cry in front of his father. As much as he found his father's mental state tragic, he was pretty pissed right at the moment. "I want to go to my room. Can I go to my room, please?" he said.

John nodded. "If the demon comes back I'll take care of it."

Dean glared at his father and then limped upstairs. He tried to clean up his cuts and bruises and put bandages on all the open cuts. He looked like a boxer who'd gone eight rounds. After he was finished disinfecting he left the bathroom, surprised to see his father waiting for him with an icepack. He took it without comment and went to his room.

The phone rang and Dean answered it. "Dean Winchester? Are you alright?" a thin, worried voice asked.

"Meghan?" he asked.

"Dean, are you alright?"

"I'll live," he said.

"I just had this feeling…and then I, I had a visitor, a ghost," she said.

"A ghost?" Dean asked, on the cusp of hysterical laughter.

"She said her name was Mary Winchester. She wanted me to give you a message," Meghan said.

"That was my mother's name," Dean said. He didn't know what to make of the call. Frankly he was too tired to think much of anything, but way too sore to sleep.

"She told me to tell you that…angels are watching over you," she said.

"I don't understand," Dean said.

Meghan laughed. "Either do I. She's a ghost, though, right? So maybe she knows more about angels than we do."

"Thanks for calling," he said. "Listen, I told my dad what you said—he thought I was a demon, and he tried to like, beat me up and do an exorcism on me. I don't know…he might think you're a demon, now, too."

"Thanks for telling me, Dean. Maybe I'll take that vacation I was planning on taking. You want me to report your dad to the cops?"

"I—I don't think so. I have a friend—actually he used to be my dad's friend—who might take me and Sam in. I just have to talk to him before I report my dad. But in the meantime, I don't want you to get hurt," Dean said.

"I hope—I hope it all turns out right. I'll pray to the angels for you, just like your mother said," Meghan said.

Dean thanked her and hung up, still unsure what to think. He couldn't believe that his mother had really appeared to some psychic and told him that angels were watching over him—he didn't even believe in angels.

Nevertheless, he held on to the medallion of St. Jude tightly as he tried to sleep, and prayed to an angel, any angel, for help.

* * *

The next morning Dean woke up early. He was making himself breakfast when the doorbell rang.

Dean was shocked to find it was the police. He wondered if Meghan had called them after all. There were two uniformed officers. One was a youngish girl who barely spoke a word, and the other was a solid-looking man in his late thirties named Officer Brady.

"Your father called and reported that you assaulted him last night," Brady said.

"I assaulted him? Seriously? Do I look like someone who beat the crap out of somebody? Why are all my bruises on my face, not my knuckles?" Dean asked.

"All I know is your father reported that you became violent after accusing him of…visiting a psychic? He said you were spying on him…acting irrational…he says he fought back, but frankly, son, he looks a lot worse than you do," Brady said.

"That absolute dick!" Dean muttered. His father must have had someone hit him or…smacked himself with a two-by-four or something to make it seem like he'd been beat up. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"He wanted us to talk to you," Brady said.

"I don't get it. My father is a shiftless bastard whose been arrested for assault several times. Why do you believe him over me? He beats me. My father has beaten me since I was ten," Dean said flatly.

The two police officers looked at each other. "We'll investigate that, of course. You know, you have a record as well…fighting, causing trouble at school…if you're saying we shouldn't believe your father because of his character, what about yours?"

"I have a friend who's, like, an adult. He owns a business in town. Do you think I can take my little brother and stay with him while you look into the abuse?"

The police officers looked at each other. "That's not how it usually goes."

"But I know…my brother is in danger. My dad thinks he's the antichrist. I swear, he tried to do an exorcism on me last night! The guy is nuts," Dean said.

"Does your father hit your brother?"

Dean wished for the first time in his life that his father had hit Sammy, just once. "No, he's never hit Sam," Dean said.

"Well, you can't be responsible for his care, not while you're under age and also under investigation. If your dad has never hit him, he must be safe here."

"It wouldn't be me. It would be Bobby Singer," Dean said.

"That old drunk? No court would ever allow it," the female cop said.

Dean felt increasingly frustrated. "So what am I supposed to do? Wait here for my dad to go schizo on me again?"

"You can go stay with Bobby Singer or another friend, but Sam has to remain here in your father's care, unless you can get his permission to have Sam stay someplace else," Officer Brady said.

"I guess I'm staying here, then," Dean said. "If I don't stay and protect Sammy my father could really hurt him."

For the first time in the course of the conversation Dean felt like Brady looked at him in some sympathy. "Listen, kid, have you ever told anyone about the abuse?"

"Never," Dean said. "I mean, I suppose my friend Andrew knows my dad doesn't always treat me right—he might have suspicions, and he knows things like the fact that I always make meals for my brother and take care of him."

"Has a teacher ever filed a report, started an investigation on your dad?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Dean said.

"We'll do our best, son, but your dad was pretty convincing at the station this morning," Brady said.

"He's always been good at covering his tracks. He never hit me more than twice, before now, and always in the stomach or kidneys…he must have gone to you before I could, and trust me, I was going to," Dean said. "The psychic, Mistress Meghan, out in Stillwater? She knows my dad is unbalanced. I just don't know if she went on vacation…I told her my dad beat me up because he thought I was a demon, and that he might think she was one, too."

"Like I said, we'll look into all of this. You take care, now," Brady said.

"More useless than tits on a boar," Dean muttered about them after they left. He wondered if they'd believed a word he said.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sam got home he looked at Dean with concern, at first, and then anger. "Why did you beat up Dad? He looks terrible. I've never seen him so sad."

Dean didn't know what to say. "You wouldn't understand, Sammy. Don't worry about it."

"But how could you do it? I mean, all the time the two of you spend together…he lets you drink beer! He gave you the impala. I asked him if he was taking it back and he said, no, it's yours, no matter what. He loves you so much, Dean. He was in tears on the way home."

The sad thing was Dean was pretty sure his dad believed his version of events. He was sick, not evil…but Dean didn't know how to make everyone understand.

He'd spent his entire life covering up for his dad's shortcomings, and he'd done such a great job that the only people who really knew how bad he was were his other victims, and maybe Bobby.

"Oh crap!" Dean said.

"What, you finally feeling guilty for what you did?" Sam asked.

"No, I forgot I was supposed to be working for Bobby today. I should have been there hours ago," Dean said.

"He'll probably fire you. He fired Dad after he beat someone up," Sam said.

"And what does that tell you, Sammy? Dad's the one with the temper, not me," Dean said, losing patience.

"You get in fights at school," Sam said.

"Fights. I don't beat some poor sap half-to-death for no good reason like our father does," Dean said.

"Are you saying that Dad hit you first?" Sam asked, wide-eyed.

Dean looked at Sam carefully, feeling conflicted. "Just don't do anything to piss Dad off, okay? For me…just don't fight with him, please?"

"Does Dad…has he hurt you before?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean had always thought he hid the abuse well, but now, looking at his brother's intent expression, he realized that Sam had always suspected there was something there. "We'll talk about this later. I have to go see Bobby and let him know why I'm late."

"Can I come?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Bring your homework if you want, or you can watch TV," Dean said. He wondered if he would even be able to work, as bruised and battered as he was.

When he got to Bobby's, Bobby tore out of his house toward the car. He opened Dean's door and started to look him over. "I should have shot him when I had the chance!" Bobby said.

Sam didn't say anything, but he watched Bobby with interest. Dean knew he should probably just tell Sammy everything, but he didn't want to ruin the kid's opinion of his dad like that…

"There's something wrong with Dad," Dean said, a tad defensively. They walked into the house and all sat down around the worn out kitchen table.

"If you defend your dad after he beat you like this—" Bobby began.

"I mean he's—he must have had a breakdown or something. He thought I was possessed," Dean said.

"Possessed? By what?"

"By a demon, I guess. He said my eyes went black and then he threw, well, I guess it might have been holy water on me and he was chanting in Latin," Dean said.

"So John's finally lost it," Bobby said. "I'm sorry it had to be you that figured it out. The police were here. I told them what I knew, and I told them you could stay here with me until things get sorted out. They told me unless John says it's alright for him to stay with me, Sam has to stay with your father."

"I should have told them he'd hit Sam," Dean muttered.

"Dad's never hit me," Sam said.

"I know Sammy, but I should have lied to them. I don't want to leave you alone with him. It's okay, though. I think he thinks the demon is out of me, now, so I'll just go home and not do anything to piss him off," Dean said.

"You should have told someone, Dean. You should have told me years ago," Bobby said.

"A solid punch now and again when I piss the guy off I can live with—this demon thing is scary, though. I swear when he was exorcizing the demon he was seeing something completely different than what was going on. It was really weird—and the way he talks about Sammy scares me," Dean said.

"What does he say about me?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at his brother, trying to decide what the best thing to do was. It would hurt Sam to hear that his father thought he was evil, but fore warned is fore armed…so he decided to tell the kid everything.

"He really thinks I'm the antichrist?" Sam whispered.

"No—but he suspects that you might be," Dean said. It was perhaps a measure of the seriousness of the situation that Dean didn't make a wisecrack about the possibility of his little brother being the antichrist.

When they reluctantly went home that night, Dean went straight into the garage to talk to his father. Sammy was having a shower before dinner.

"Can I talk to you?" Dean asked.

"Sure, Dean, what do you need?" John asked, turning to face him.

Now Dean understood what everyone had been talking about when they said that John looked worse than he did. Although he might have hit John once or twice while trying to block his father's punches, he hadn't made hamburger meat of the guy's face. "How did you do that to yourself?" Dean asked without thinking.

John's expression darkened. "You did this to me, last night. I couldn't stop you. I couldn't do anything to get you to stop fighting. Finally I had to fight back. I'm sorry for what I had to do to you."

Dean didn't want to contradict his father, so commented vaguely, "I don't remember that," he said.

"I know you don't," John said softly. "I'm glad you decided to come home."

Dean shrugged. "Where else would I go?"

"I want you to get some help, Dean," John said.

"I don't understand," Dean said. His father had thought he was possessed the other night—was he going to be sent to a priest or something?

"Last night—well, I would help you Dean, I would keep you here, but I can't have you doing something like that to Sammy," John said.

"I would never hurt my brother. You have to know that," Dean said.

"I would have thought you never would have hurt me, before last night," John said.

"You're the one who's delusional. You're the one who thinks demons are real!" Dean shouted.

John paused, and then began to clean his hands slowly in the sink in his garage. "I've never believed in demons, Dean. I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean backed away, confused. His dad had to be messing with him—but why? What possible reason could he have for making up all these elaborate stories and then pretending he hadn't?

"But you told me—and that psychic, Mistress Meghan, she told me that you thought mom died on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. She said you believed that a demon had fed Sammy blood that night to make him serve the devil," Dean said.

"You went to see a psychic about me?" John asked.

"No—you went to see the psychic, and she told me what the two of you talked about," Dean said.

"I've never been to a psychic, Dean," John said gently. "I think something has got you confused. If we can just get you in to talk to a doctor…maybe get you on some medication…"

"I'm not crazy!" Dean said.

"I never said you were. I just want you to go to a place to rest. Maybe I've put too much pressure on you. You started taking care of Sammy when you were so young…you never complained. I really should have seen this coming," John said.

Dean stared at his father incredulously. "You want to lock me up because _you_ beat the crap out of me? What about Sammy?"

"What about him?"

"You still think he's the goddamned antichrist?" Dean growled.

"Of course not! How could I ever think that?" John asked.

"I don't know," Dean said wearily. "I only know what you and that psychic told me."

"I talked to your friend Andrew. He said he went with you to Stillwater…but he never heard what happened with the woman. And I can't get a hold of her," John said.

"That's because…look, Dad, please…don't send me away. I promise I'll get help if you let me stay here," Dean said. He wasn't buying anything his Dad was selling, but if he agreed to get help, maybe he could stay and protect his brother.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, Dean. I have to make sure Sam is safe," John said.

Dean walked away and went upstairs to pack. He was so confused. Had his dad suddenly got lucid, maybe because of the shock of beating Dean up? And why did he remember what had happened last night in a completely different way than Dean did? Was it possible that his dad thought Dean was still a demon and so was sending Dean away to protect Sam?

The thought that worried Dean the most was—what if his dad was right? What if _he_ was the one who was losing it, not his dad?


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was sitting on his bed the next morning, his packed bag beside him, when Sam came into the room.

Sam was looking at him with obvious pity mixed with anger he was just as obviously trying to hide. Dean grimaced. "Dad's been talking to you, I see."

"How could you have told me those things about Dad? I believed you, Dean," Sam said.

"I believed it, too," Dean mumbled.

"Do you admit you were lying about Dad?" Sam asked.

"I don't know what to think," Dean said. "I remember it so clearly…but Dad seems to remember it differently—either one us is crazy, or someone spiked our cereal with LSD that day."

"Can you please not joke about this?" Sam asked. "Dad is beside himself, and you're being shipped off to a mental institution."

"Sorry Sammy. I…honestly, I believe that what I saw was real. Let's face it, Sam. Dad is an unreliable alcoholic who's had a hard time living his life because he's constantly angry and erratic. He could have lost it, somehow. On the other hand, I am the right age to have a psychotic break, I guess. Most schizophrenics have their first episode in their late teens and early twenties."

"So you don't know what's real?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at his brother. He remembered it all so clearly—but if he was really crazy, he would still remember it clearly, wouldn't he? He cleared his throat. "I don't know what's real," he confirmed.

Sam looked at him with a strange expression. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen that expression on Sam's face before. It was—it was a look of pity. Dean had always been his brother's hero, his primary caregiver and his best friend. He felt the loss of his brother's admiration keenly. "Feel better, alright? Take some time to get better. I promise I'll be okay, Dean," he said finally.

Dean nodded, thinking to himself that he hoped his brother was right.

* * *

Hiding was not something Dean did often. He generally tried to meet any difficulties head on—but he didn't want to go out into the ward. Not yet. He was happy to sit in his new room, in his new Velcro shoes, all alone. Thankfully, he didn't have a roommate—but that could change, because there were two beds in the room, as well as two bedside tables. There were no lamps—Dean thought that was probably because of the cord—or maybe they wanted to be able to control when his light went off and on.

The rest of the room was surprisingly warm and comforting…almost childish, actually. He was in the teenaged ward, which was a blessed relief.

Dean wasn't afraid of mentally ill people (unless he counted his father—which he wasn't sure he should), but he didn't want to see a bunch of them right at the moment. Seeing older people ravaged by their disease would just cut too deep. He didn't want to see what his father might become, or, if he was the crazy one, he didn't want to see his own future.

"Please, please…" Dean prayed, although they had taken his St. Jude's medal, "Please help me understand what's happening."

Later, Dean was asked by an orderly to go to the common room. He followed compliantly, but he wasn't sure he felt much better than he had before. There were several other teens sitting in unenthusiastic heaps around the room, which had several non-matching sofas and a round table with games.

"Where's the TV?" Dean asked.

"We took it out. Kids were always fighting over what to watch. There are some novels in the corner by the window," the orderly said.

"Thanks," Dean said. He went over to the bookshelf to see if there was anything good. Despite what his English teacher thought, he did like to read occasionally, mostly Vonnegut and some science fiction. Right now he could use an escape.

"They let you take them to your room, but they shut the lights out at like, nine-thirty," a girl said.

Dean glanced at her. She would have been pretty if she didn't have so much Goth makeup on and so many studs in her face. Actually, she was still pretty—but it kind of made Dean sad to look at her. He smiled slightly. "Thanks. You read any of these?"

"This one's good," she said, getting up and handing him a book.

"Thanks. I'm Dean," he said.

"Tanya," she said.

He spent the next two hours reading a surprisingly awesome fantasy novel, and occasionally glancing over his book at the other people in the room. There were some boys playing cards at the table, Tanya was sitting near him with a book, and there were a couple of girls sitting under the light doing each other's nails. It was hard for him to imagine what the other kids were in for—they seemed like a normal bunch.

When the time came for everyone to return to their rooms, Dean was as reluctant to leave the common room as he had been to go into in the first place. For the first time that he could remember Dean was afraid to be alone. He wondered if that was a symptom of schizophrenia, too.

That night Dean couldn't sleep. He was so worried about his brother and his father. Dean knew in his heart that he should probably be worried about himself, but he had no real experience with worrying about himself—and he didn't know what his father was capable of right now. Even if he wasn't crazy, he didn't always eat and he wasn't working right now, which would only give him time to drink.

They needed him.

He needed to get out of this place.

The next day in group therapy Dean refused to go into why he was there. He did talk briefly about his anxiety about how his brother and father were doing without him. After group he read his book and he talked to Tanya. In the afternoon he had a private session with a psychiatrist.

"Why did your father check you in here, Dean?" the Dr. asked him.

"Don't you know?" Dean asked.

"I know what your father's perspective is. I want to know what happened from your end. When did all the trouble start?" Dr. Thomas asked.

Dean told the doctor the truth, as he remembered it. He wanted to know if he was sick, and while he realized that his story sounded crazy, he trusted that the doctor wouldn't just take things at face value.

"Do you think you want your father to be unable to care for your brother, so that you can take over as primary caregiver?" the doctor asked when Dean had finished his story.

Dean looked at the doctor strangely. "But I'm not old enough to take my brother. And, I mean, in a perfect world my father would be Ward Cleaver and I would be able to go out with my friends without worrying that he was going to punch Sam in the gut because Sam looked at him the wrong way."

"How do you feel about your father?" Dr. Thomas asked.

Dean hesitated. "If I knew—if I had a guarantee that he would never hurt my brother—I'd say he was pretty close to my favourite person, next to Sammy. He's not caring, like Bobby, at least, not in an obvious way…but he was a war hero, you know? I understand he has issues. I think he must have had a pretty strained relationship with his own father, so sometimes he has a hard time."

The doctor wrote something in his notepad. "So you aren't bitter about your father hitting you?"

Dean shrugged. "I'd prefer if he didn't hit me, but it's not that bad. I can handle it, you know? And he did give me his 1967 impala."

"Do you think you deserve to be hit?"

Dean looked at his hands. He tried to think of all the times his father had hit him. He had to admit; sometimes he thought he at the very least provoked his father. "I'm not perfect. I've gotten in trouble a lot at school, and I talk back to teachers all the time."

"Dean, no child should ever be hit," Dr. Thomas said.

Dean nodded weakly, knowing that was the response that was expected of him. He wanted to say that families weren't all the same, and he and his father had their own ways of interacting, but a part of him knew that he was simply defending the only way of life he'd ever known. He loved his father, but he'd always known John shouldn't hit him. Hell, it would have killed him if John had ever hit Sam. He had only let it go on because he was afraid that if he told someone, they'd be taken away from their father, maybe separated, and it was possible that they'd end up in a worse situation than they'd been in with their father.

Getting hit every once and a while was a small price to pay to live with his brother and know he was safe. After all, it was only Dean who was ever hit, and between the two of them Sammy was the one who mattered. He was the smart one, the good one…the one with the bright future ahead of him. Dean swallowed slowly.

He guessed he _had_ thought he deserved to be hit.

That night Dean had a dream that a bright white light pierced his eyes and a high-pitched sound smashed into his ears despite the fingers he crammed into them.

He woke with a startled gasp, surprised that none of the orderlies came to see what the commotion was.

The room was empty; it was just as it had been before he'd fallen asleep.

It must have been nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

When Dean woke up the next morning, there was a man in his room, sitting on the other bed.

"Are you my new roommate?" Dean asked groggily.

"No, Dean, I'm an angel of the Lord," the man said in a gravelly voice.

"A what now?" Dean asked.

"I'm an angel, Dean. You prayed for my help, and I have answered your prayers," the man said.

Dean looked at the man more closely. It was strange that the nut job was in the teen ward—but Dean supposed he wasn't that old—maybe nineteen or twenty, at the oldest, now he looked at him closely. He could even be younger, but he seemed old, Dean supposed, because he was wearing an ill-fitting blue suit with a tan trench coat over top of it.

"How'd you get them to let you keep your clothes?" Dean asked.

The man ignored his question, looking around the room. "You need to leave this place. The danger to your brother is very real."

Dean was alarmed. Either this strange bird really was an angel, or he had been listening in on Dean's therapy session. Dean wasn't exactly sure which was worse…

"Back up a minute, Chuckles. What's your name?"

"My name is Castiel," he said.

"Cast-I think I'm going to call you Cas," Dean said.

"I admit, I haven't answered a human prayer in a long time. I forgot that your kind can't see or speak directly to me. That light that you saw last night was me. It was fortunate I was able to find a vessel," Castiel said.

"A what?" Dean asked.

"Angels use vessels, or willing humans, who allow us to inhabit their body, to interact with humanity. Our forms are too magnificent for your minds to comprehend," Castiel said. He paused, and then continued awkwardly, "also seeing us burns out your eyes and our voices might make your head explode."

"Isn't a vessel like a cup?" Dean asked.

Castiel sighed in frustration. "Dean, you have to get out of this place. Your father is very sick, and your brother is the focus of his illness. If you don't protect him, he could get hurt or even die."

"If I break out of here they'll just drag me back. You think I haven't thought of that?" Dean said. "The only way I think I can get out of here is to get better."

"That makes no sense, Dean, you're perfectly sane," the angel said.

"Thanks, Cas. That means a lot coming from a guy who's either insane, a hallucination, or isn't even a human, depending on what's really going on here," Dean said.

"I assure you I am as real as you are," Castiel said.

"Well, that's reassuring," Dean said dryly.

"I'm glad you feel that way. So, we must return to your house," Castiel said. Dean smiled slightly at the angel's complete misunderstanding of sarcasm. He was weird, but Dean found himself liking him—and not just because with Castiel around Dean didn't feel so alone with his problems.

Castiel got off the other bed and proceeded to stand a little too close to Dean's—he reached out to touch Dean on the forehead and Dean ducked away from the touch. Whoever, or whatever this guy was, he needed to learn about personal space.

"Cas, man, I can't go anywhere. I have to prove to these people that I'm not crazy or I won't be able to do anything. I have to, I don't know, say the right things so that they don't think I'm really crazy—just stressed out or something."

"How can I help you?" Cas asked.

"You got any way to let me see the notes the doctor took during our session yesterday?" Dean asked.

"One moment," Cas said, and then he disappeared in a flutter of wings.

"What the!" Dean exclaimed. He was getting more and more convinced he was the crazy one. After all, he was talking to angels now. Angels. He didn't even believe in angels.

The fact that he'd been praying for help from an angel was beside the point.

A moment later, Castiel reappeared with a notebook in his hand. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked.

Dean looked at the notepad. It legitimately looked like the notepad the doctor had been using, and it was solid and real—it was pretty hard for a hallucination to give out solid objects, which was partially why Dean had been so attached to the St. Jude medal—it made that whole conversation real.

He read the notes. The doctor had underlined the words "low self-esteem", "lack of a valid parental figure", "too much responsibility" and "abuse—REAL". So the doctor believed that Dean had been abused. That was good. That was better than the police, at any rate. If he could find a way to have a breakthrough during a session which made it seem like he had a tiny psychotic break while his father was beating him to explain the abuse—because he was in denial or something—maybe the doctor wouldn't think he was schitzo. Even if the doctor did believe he was crazy, he would only have to get on medication and he could leave, probably…no one went to a mental institution for a long long time anymore unless they were criminally insane or a drug addict or something.

"Drugs!" Dean said.

Castiel tilted his head to the side in a move strangely reminiscent of his friend Andrew's beagle.

"I can say I was on drugs that night," Dean said. "I can break down and admit I tried something I thought was just pot that I got in Stillwater. I'll pretend I stopped on the way home after I dropped off Andrew and smoked this gagger that must have been mixed with something—and then I'll act all innocent and confused, like, do you honestly think that could have caused me to see something that wasn't real?"

"Is lying the correct course of action? Right now you are completely in the right. The only thing you are guilty of is caring about your brother. Lying to doctors, even for a good cause, is a sin," Cas said.

"Now I know you're not a hallucination. I can't imagine a part of my psyche that is _this_ preachy," Dean murmured.

"It's true, Dean, that I don't fully understand how things work between humans. I only meant that maybe I should just go talk to the doctor—explain that I am an angel of the Lord and you are telling the truth about everything," Cas said.

Dean smiled slightly, imagining that conversation and its aftermath, but then something disturbing occurred to him. "Cas, if angels are real…my dad isn't right, is he? I mean, if angels are real, than is it possible that there really was a demon that killed my mom, and fed Sammy blood?"

"It is possible, because demons are real…but I have looked in on your brother, and he is no abomination. I would be able to sense the corruption of demon blood around him, and there is nothing. Your father has never come into contact with a real demon in his life," Cas said.

"Thank God," Dean said, exhaling in relief. He thought back to what Castiel had been saying before. "Cas, I don't think the doctor would believe you. Even if you disappeared in front of his eyes he'd find some way to rationalize it away."

"If you say so," Castiel said. He looked up suddenly. "The orderly is coming to wake you. If you need me, pray for me."

The angel disappeared, taking the doctor's notebook with him. Dean felt strangely optimistic—maybe there was some way this could all work out, after all. If angels really did exist…If Castiel had really answered his prayer…If he could get out of this place on time to stop his dad from hurting Sammy…

It was a lot of ifs.

The question that bothered Dean the most was why an angel would answer any of his prayers. Surely there were better people, worthier people out there who deserved the help more than he? He wondered suddenly about this mother's ghost. Had she pulled some strings with the angels to get them to watch over him?

Was that even possible?

Dean didn't know what he believed, but he was glad there was someone around on his side. He hadn't seen Bobby in a while and he wondered if the man still believed him. It had hurt when he realized Sam believed his father over him.

It had hurt a lot.

He'd sabotaged himself by not being honest about the abuse before. It seemed now he was going to pay the price—but just as long as Sammy didn't have to, he could live with that.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean set his plan into motion as soon as he could—which unfortunately wasn't until two that afternoon when he had his private therapy session. Until that time, he'd had to endure group therapy and something called "structured game time" which was kind of like a horrific combination of kindergarten and a high pressure game show run by sadistic orderlies.

Group therapy had, at least, given him some perspective on his problems. Whatever he was facing—he felt he could fight it. Do something. And he had help. He had Bobby, and now Cas. Lots of the people in the hospital had problems they couldn't ever get rid of, and for a couple of seconds he was grateful at least he had a plan.

Until he remembered the plan was based on the combined wisdom of a naïve angel who at best barely understood humanity and at worst was a hallucination, and a high school student, cobbled together with shoestrings and hope.

Only he was in a mental hospital so they'd taken his shoestrings.

Dean found himself laughing shakily under his breath. He was waiting for Dr. Thomas, wondering if he was a good enough actor to fool a psychiatrist. He hoped so.

Dean lucked out. When the older man entered the office he was all business, and what he wanted to hear about was exactly what Dean wanted to discuss—what happened the night he'd come back from Stillwater and been exorcised by his father.

Of course, that wasn't the story he told today. He started out talking about the psychic. Since she'd tried so hard to help him, he couldn't implicate her in his tale of woe. He pretended she'd said some mumbo jumbo about his mother's ghost and hadn't even remembered his dad. He said he'd met a guy in the hallway of her building who had given him a joint—tried to slip the information in there like he had no idea that it might be important.

"You didn't tell me this part before," Dr. Thomas remarked.

"Didn't I?" Dean tried to look sheepish. "I guess I—well, after what you said yesterday, I just felt like I should give therapy an honest try. I was kind of afraid of getting in trouble, too."

"What I said yesterday?" the doctor asked.

"About kids not deserving—what you said," he said, honestly unable to say the words.

Dr. Thomas actually seemed to swallow some excess of emotion at Dean's words. Inexplicably Dean felt guilty for deceiving him, but reminded himself this was necessary.

"What else happened that night that you didn't tell me?" he asked.

"Nothing much. I just stopped at the park and smoked the joint before I went home," he said. "I didn't really feel that stoned, though," Dean looked up abruptly as though a thought had just occurred to him. "You don't think pot could have made me think my dad was acting crazy, do you?"

The doctor looked thoughtful, not skeptical, to Dean's relief. "Not pot, no. It can induce psychotic episodes, but usually not after one joint here and there. Usually for it to have such a grave psychological affect someone has to smoke it extremely often. You said on your admission forms that you were not a habitual drug user. Were you lying?"

Dean shook his head. "Just once and a while. Mostly at parties. I was worried about my dad making Sammy do all those push ups when he was sick—I didn't want him to start picking on him like he picks on me, sometimes. I think it has to do with, like, competition? Like he thinks I'm trying to show him up. So I thought it would calm me down cause I couldn't stop worry about what he might do to Sammy."

"It could have been something a lot stronger, like angel dust. It would explain the strength it must have taken for you to beat up a big man like John Winchester, and how your father said you seemed out of control and he couldn't stop you from attacking him."

Dean allowed his face to cloud with worry. Worry was one emotion he didn't have to fake. "If it was angel dust it would be out of my system now, wouldn't it?"

"It can cause brain damage, but it's usually reversible," the doctor said.

"I didn't know brain damage was reversible," Dean said. He was finding himself kind of interested in this conversation. A part of him really wished he could go to therapy with Dr. Thomas. He really kind of liked him. Especially since he seemed to be eating up Dean's lie. "Why would that guy have given me angel dust? What is that, anyway? Like LSD?"

"It's PCP. I couldn't tell you why people do the despicable things they do," he said.

"Isn't that kind of your job?" Dean asked, though not unkindly.

"I try to help people get over the bad things that have been done to them, mostly. Sometimes, like in your case, I can help people realize why they would do things to hurt others. But most people who do things like that never come to get help—not unless the courts force them to. And not one of them would have come out and been this honest with me after two sessions," Dr. Thomas said.

Dean was afraid he'd miscalculated for a minute, and then replayed the doctor's comments in his head. He didn't suspect—at least Dean hoped he didn't. He blurted out, "Is PCP the stuff the babysitter took before she cooked the baby in the oven instead of the turkey?"

Dr. Thomas's mouth twitched as though he was holding back a smile. "That's an urban legend. And the first clue should be that no one would ever trust a teenaged babysitter to cook a turkey. But you're right—the story was about PCP."

"Huh," Dean said. He hoped he was playing this right. "So wait, you know why I did what I did? Can taking this drug really make you do stuff like what I did?"

The doctor looked thoughtful. "It only emphasizes feelings you already have. You subconsciously wanted to punish your father for the way he treats you, so your mind constructed a scenario where you would feel no guilt in attacking him."

Dean was almost convinced, until he remembered this entire diagnosis was based on a lie. A really good lie, but a lie nonetheless. He sighed sadly. "I don't know if my dad's ever going to understand that. I mean, he said the only reason he was sending me here was because my behaviour was unpredictable and he was worried about what I might do to Sam. Even if you let me out of here, I don't know if he'd let me back in the house with Sammy."

"That's probably the best thing for you. You've had a visitor both days you've been here—a Bobby Singer? Would he take you in?" Dr. Thomas asked.

"Bobby's been here?" Dean asked.

"You can't have visitors in the first 72 hours, or I would have let him in to see you. He obviously cares a lot about you," he said. The way he said it was almost a question.

"He's a widower, and he doesn't have any children. He used to be my father's boss, when I was young. Before the drinking got between them. I mean, Bobby drinks, too; I think that's why they became friends. You know how drunks surround themselves with other drunks so no one can tell them to stop drinking? But then Dad beat up this other employee of Bobby's…a kid…I don't know why, but Bobby fired him and I only saw him when I snuck away to from then on. I used to sneak Sammy over there when Dad was on a bender."

"I wish you would go live with him, Dean. You know a lot of things a seventeen year old shouldn't know," Dr. Thomas said.

Dean smiled bleakly. "I already know them. If I don't get home, Sammy will know them, too."

"You can't save everyone, Dean," the doctor said.

Dean spoke without even thinking. "I can't save everyone. I know. But I'd be a piss poor human being if I couldn't even save my own brother."

"I have a private practice, Dean. I'm going to have you released as soon as I can—but I'd like to continue seeing you," he said.

"My dad doesn't have any insurance," Dean said.

"I see a select few clients pro bono."

"I don't know whether to be flattered or scared for my mental health," Dean joked.

"I just think—I just think you could use someone to talk to, Dean. I don't think you're losing it, or anything. You've got a lot of pressure on your shoulders," the doctor said.

Dean felt his eyes fill with tears in silent gratitude for this unexpected development. And if Cas was really a hallucination, he'd need the help soon enough.

* * *

Cas was waiting for him in his room when he returned. "Have you managed to talk your way out of this place?"

"I think so," Dean said. He spoke as softly as he could, knowing that the last thing he wanted was for an orderly to hear him talking to someone who wasn't there. At this point he wasn't sure if anyone else could see Cas, and he sensed this was hardly the place to experiment.

"Good. Your father's condition is deteriorating. He was briefly shocked into lucidity by his mistreatment of you, but that won't last. He'll remember what really happened soon enough," Cas said.

"I don't know if Sammy will trust me enough to let him help him," Dean said. "He thinks I'm delusional, now."

"You have a lifetime of trust between you on which to draw."

"Can't you just give him your angel of the Lord speech?"

Cas looked uncertain. "I really wasn't even supposed to reveal myself to you. I don't know if I should tell Sam who I truly am."

"But you wanted to tell Dr. Thomas!" Dean protested.

"I was wrong about that. I think I'd like to tell as few people as possible that I'm an angel."

"You can trust Sam. He's a good kid," Dean said.

"We'll see," Cas said.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean was released an agonizing day and a half later, Dr. Thomas's business card in hand. Bobby picked him up.

He wished he could stay with his friend, but he knew he had to go back to his house to make sure Sammy was okay.

Bobby insisted on feeding Dean first, and Dean appreciated it, even though the stew wasn't exactly fantastic. While they were eating, Dean found himself asking, "Do you believe in angels?"

"Other than my late wife? Not really. Why do you ask?"

"Okay, but…what about other things you can't explain? Like demons, and ghosts and…psychics who really can tell the future and read people's minds? Do you believe in anything like that?"

Bobby looked startled. "You know, they thought you'd had a psychotic break, at first. I bet you didn't talk about stuff like that with your psychiatrist—otherwise they'd have never let you out."

"I'm not crazy, Bobby. At least I don't think I am. But I think there might be…something out there…in the dark," Dean said. He looked at Bobby with mounting concern. The man seemed to have gone pale. He'd never seen that happen in real life, and he wondered if Bobby was going to faint. "Are you okay, man?" he asked him.

"I think we need to have a good talk one of these days. I—I can tell you that—you're not alone. There's people out there who've…who've had their eyes opened. You can't go back after you know. Are you sure you want to know what I know?"

"Yeah. Yeah of course I want to know. I can't just bury my head in the sand," Dean said.

"You don't think your Daddy is—possessed, do you?" Bobby asked.

"No. I think I have it on pretty good authority that he's just crazy. Mentally ill. You'd think I'd be more sensitive after being committed for the last few days. I wonder if he saw something when mom died that made him lose it, you know? Not a demon, but something else. Just enough to open his eyes but not enough to make him really understand anything. And he's fixated on it…"

"How worried are you about your brother?"

"I think I've got to go back to the house. I'll call first, make sure Dad'll let me in," Dean muttered.

"Are your sure this thing with your Dad is strictly in his head?" Bobby said. "Because I could get some friends who are…clued in…to come help."

"Unless one of your friends is a lawyer who can get you custody of Sammy, there's nothing they can do. Thank you, though," Dean said, "for everything."

* * *

Dean hopped out of the car and was surprised that both Sam and his dad emerged from the house, and took turns giving him tight hugs. His dad even waved at Bobby and shouted "thanks" over the rumble of the beat-up pickup Bobby was driving.

Bobby nodded in that no-nonsense way he had and drove off, probably going home to sit and drink and wait by the phone for news of pending disaster.

Actually a part of Dean wondered if he'd circled the block and was going to stake out the house. It was probably what Dean would do in his place.

"Dean, we're so glad you're back," Sam said breathlessly. "You should have seen what happened at school the other day. There was this big fight when—"

"Let your brother breathe for a minute, Sam. Actually, can you give your brother and me some time? We need to talk about what happened," John said.

"But Dad! Dean just got here," Sam whined, acting uncharacteristically childish. Dean wondered just how tense it had gotten without him to act as a buffer between Sam and his dad. Obviously nothing bad had happened, but John and Sam didn't really get along all that well.

"I need to talk to him about this drug he took," John said. He was trying to do that stern former-marine voice he'd been good at before he became a paunchy alcoholic filled with self-loathing.

Dean tried his best to look contrite. "I didn't know what it was. I thought it was just pot."

"You don't take drugs from a guy you don't know, Dean! Actually I'd prefer you just stayed away from drugs altogether. They can mess with your head," John said.

"Believe me, I will from now on," Dean said reverently.

John proceeded to lecture Dean for a while longer, and then sent Dean to his room. He went up to Sam's room first, of course, to see what the problem had been at school.

He went into Sam's room without knocking and looked in. Of course, Sam wasn't in there—he was waiting for Dean in his room.

"Okay, what happened?" Dean asked.

Sammy was sitting at his desk listening to a record. When he saw Dean he took off his headphones and took the needle off the record. Dean ignored the urge to tell his brother to stay away from his record player. He'd told him a hundred times without noticeable effect, and god knows the kid would be better off if some of Dean's taste in music rubbed off on him.

"What?"

"I said what happened at school? It was practically bursting out of you before," Dean asked.

Sam looked almost ashamed for a minute. "I should have asked you how you are. Are you okay?"

Dean tried his best to look haunted. "They strapped me to a table and shocked the shit out of me, Sammy. And there was this nurse that got her jollies from destroying the souls of the poor misunderstood residents—"

"Yeah, I saw _Cuckoo's Nest_, Dean. I was being serious," Sam said, glaring.

"It was fine. Good. I mean, I really liked the Doctor I met. I might keep seeing him," Dean said.

"Really?" Sam asked, scrunching up his face with a mixture of disbelief and distaste.

"Yeah, but don't tell anyone, alright? Even Dad. I don't want anyone to know about it," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Why'd you tell me, then?"

"Come on, Sam. Spill. What happened at school? And how did you hear about it?"

"The middle school is right next door. We get all the same gossip," Sam said airily. "And I actually saw some of this, cause it happened in the parking lot."

"Okay, I'm officially dying of suspense," Dean sighed.

"Phil Connor called you psycho and Andrew beat the crap out of him," Sam said.

"Seriously?" Dean asked. "I wish he hadn't bothered. Like I need a football player on my case. Doesn't Andrew know they travel in packs? Phil can call me psycho if he wants to. I don't give a crap."

"But that's what happened. And then the next day, Daryl Emerson sucker punched Andrew for beating up Connor. And then Terry tried to beat up Daryl—but Daryl's a lot bigger than him."

"Are you serious? My friends have been taking on the damn football team in my name? What the hell is wrong with them?"

"They were sticking up for you," Sam said.

"It's high school, not _West Side Story_. I've got to get them under control," Dean said.

"Why would they listen to you?" Sam asked. "You've obviously lost your mind."

"Nice, Sammy, nice," Dean said, throwing a pillow at his brother.

After Sam left, Dean felt strangely alone and afraid. He remembered what Cas had said about praying for him, and decided to try it out.

"Umm, dear Cas…I kind of need to talk to you, if you have a minute…amen?" Dean mumbled.

There was a flutter of wings. "I'm here, Dean."

"Hi," Dean said awkwardly.

"What do you need?" Cas said.

Dean tried to get used to that intense stare, and found he couldn't. He got up and paced a little around the room. "I was talking to Bobby about what might have got my dad thinking there was a supernatural reason for my mother's death. I was wondering if you…if you knew exactly what happened."

"I don't know, but if you think it'll help you resolve this issue with your father, I can take you back in time to observe what happened," Cas said.

Dean felt uncomfortable. "I don't know if I want to go back in time to watch my mother die. I mean, I think if it were up to me I'd use any time travel powers I managed to acquire to go to a Zeppelin concert."

"Zeppelins are hydrogen powered airships, aren't they?" Cas asked.

"No—I mean—never mind. I don't know if I can handle watching my mother die, Cas," Dean said.

"I'll be there with you the whole time," Cas said.

Dean just barely restrained his urge to roll his eyes. Like Cas would be any comfort. He had all the empathy of a Vulcan. He immediately felt guilty for thinking that—after all, no one else had materialized out of thin air to help him. "Thank you for the offer. I'll think about it," Dean said. "Things don't seem so bad, here, man. My dad seems normal. What's up with that?"

"Dean?"

Dean looked at the door, surprised. Sammy's voice had sounded thin and worried—and Dean hadn't noticed him at the door. Cas was nowhere to be seen.

"Sam, I didn't see you there," Dean said.

"Dean, who were you talking to?" Sam asked. His face was drawn with worry.

"Sammy, don't—I was thinking about what I was going to say to Andrew and the guys. To get them to stop brawling like they're extras in _The Outsiders_," Dean said.

"It sounded like you were talking to yourself," Sam said.

"Sam, I'm fine. And I was just thinking out loud, really," Dean said.

Sam still looked worried as he left. Dean wondered if he was going to tell John.

"Well shit," Dean muttered.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean was surprised to see Andrew at school the next day. Dean thought at least one of the people involved in the fighting around school would have been suspended by now, but apparently gossip had exaggerated events considerably. The way Sam had described everything, it had sounded like world war three breaking out.

Truth was that the only fight that had gotten further than a sucker punch off of school property or a couple of shoves had been the fight between Andrew and Phil, and it had been a lot less dramatic than Sam had let on. Andrew said he didn't exactly "beat the crap out of" Phil so much as he caught him off-guard for a few blows before the fight evened out.

They had been pulled apart before any major damage was done or a winner was declared, but it was the general consensus of the student body that no matter how that fight went, Andrew had been stupid to start it, because now the entire football team was gunning for Dean and his friends.

"How did I get involved in this?" Dean said. "I wasn't even _here_."

They were sitting on the bleachers by the football field before school started. It was a gray misty day and most people were inside.

Andrew grimaced. "I know you would have punched him. He was calling you psycho—in front of everybody! And he'd been dropping these little digs all day about how you were in the Looney bin and how I should go pay you a wifely visit."

"Wifely? Does he think we're gay or something?" Dean asked. Dean wasn't gay, but he didn't really mind being mistaken for gay—well, he wasn't horrified, or anything—as long as it was only guys making the mistake. He would be worried if girls thought he was gay, but no girl had ever thought that that he knew of. Probably because he found it pretty hard to interact with a girl without flirting. Actually, he kind of flirted with guys, too—but that was just spreading the charm around, being friendly.

He'd wondered about Andrew, though, not that his friend being gay would have made any difference. He suspected Andrew got called queer a lot when Dean wasn't around, even though the guy always seemed to have a girlfriend. There was just something, not soft, not at all, but gentle about him. It didn't bother Dean at all because he knew he was the same way, he just acted tough. He didn't think it made either of them gay—but still Dean wondered about Andrew sometimes, and about the way he looked at Dean.

"He's a football player. He thinks everyone who isn't a football player is gay," Andrew said.

"Oh come on. I used to play football in junior year. Most of them aren't so bad," Dean said. "Besides, they slap each other's asses all the time. If anyone's gay, it's them."

"Well, I'm staying away from them for a while. I can't get in trouble. It's fine for you to get into fights; you have your future all mapped out. I need to get into college and I won't get to go anywhere good with fighting on my record," Andrew said.

"I never _asked_ you to fight anyone," Dean said. "Maybe I can get those guys to back off. I'll try to talk to them—let them know this is all some kind of misunderstanding." He paused thoughtfully. "Did you ever get interviewed by the cops? I told them that you knew stuff about my situation at home."

Andrew looked over at Dean, pausing in the process of lighting a cigarette. "I didn't tell them anything, Dean. I didn't even tell them that you took care of your brother more often than your father does—or how you worry about leaving the two of them alone."

Dean nodded his head. He was almost in tears. Of course Andrew would have lied for him. Andrew had never had any indication from Dean that he wanted him to do anything else. But a part of Dean wished that Andrew had cared enough about him as a friend to tell the truth anyway. Yeah, protecting Sammy was important, but why wouldn't Andrew think about protecting _him_? Andrew got in a fist fight with some kid who called him a name, but it was okay for Dean and his brother to get neglected, and for Dean to be abused?

It was crazy.

And a week ago, before any of this stuff had happened, if Andrew had told the cops Dean was being abused, Dean would have beat the shit out of him and never spoken to him again. Somehow everything was different now—more real. More serious. Somehow things were coming to a head and he wanted the record straight before it all went down.

But Andrew couldn't have known any of that. Dean should have called him and told him to tell the police the truth. Somehow he'd thought his friend would have just known to, and he felt unaccountably and unreasonably let down.

"I wish you would have told the truth," Dean said softly.

"What is the truth?" Andrew asked.

"You know," Dean said.

"I _don't_ know," Andrew said. "You're going to have to tell me."

"You really going to tell me you never saw the bruises?" Dean said.

Andrew looked shocked, and then guilty. He opened his mouth to say something, but approaching footsteps made him throw his cigarette and crane his neck to see who was walking up.

"Dean, I need to talk to you," the man said. It was Cas. Dean looked at the man—handsome, but hardly dapper in his ill-fitting suit. Who would believe he was an angel?

"Cas, buddy, I've got school right now," Dean said.

"I can't help you forever. I have duties to attend to. Do you want to do what we discussed before, or not?"

"Who is this guy?" Andrew said. He sounded suspicious—mad, even. It sort of confused Dean.

"He's a friend," Dean said to Andrew. "It has to be now?" Dean asked, turning back to Cas.

"Yes," Cas said, not elaborating. If he really was an angel, Dean supposed he didn't have a lot of experience justifying his actions.

"Alright. I'll do it, but we should—" Dean started to say, but then Cas touched his forehead, and they were suddenly somewhere else. Dean felt nauseated and somehow like he'd been turned inside out, and he fell to his knees.

"We are here, but at the same time, we're not. No one can see or hear either of us," Cas said.

"Where are we?" Dean asked. He looked around. They were in the living room of a nice house. It was clean with decent, if outdated, furnishings. There was a warmth to the house that seemed somehow familiar, but he couldn't place it. The entire place seemed familiar, come to that. "Are we here? Is this our house?"

"Yes. You and your parents are just finishing up dinner," Cas said, cocking his ear as though he could hear them. Hell, he probably could.

Dean walked deeper into the house and to the left, thinking that was probably where the kitchen was, although he couldn't really remember the layout. Cas followed.

At the table sat Mary, looking so beautiful it made Dean's chest hurt. He had a feeling it had made his chest hurt looking at her even back then—if the adoring look he was giving her was any indication. It was strange, looking at himself at four, like looking at a three dimensional picture, or a hologram or something, or staring at a mirror that goes back in time. He'd been a cute kid, alright.

So had Sammy. Sam was sitting in something that wasn't quite a high chair being fed by his father. It was obvious from the things Mary and John said to him over the remainder of dinner that his younger self had been preoccupied with Sammy for the entire meal. He'd been trying to feed him, trying to talk to him, probably poking at him.

"For chrissake, Dean, leave your brother alone for a minute, would ya?" John said. He was probably only annoyed but his voice was harsh enough to sound mad. Dean kind of smiled at his father's plight, imagining he had not be overly happy to be feeding a six month old in the first place and Dean hadn't been making it any easier on him. His younger self, however, shrank into himself like the sensitive little soul he'd been. Dean spared half a minute to feel bad for the tyke, but then figured he'd toughen up, soon, anyway, so no point wasting pity on him.

"John, you can't talk to him like that. He's only a little boy," Mary said. She sounded exasperated and mad, like it wasn't the first time she'd said it. She put a comforting hand on Dean's arm and he seemed to rally.

"I'm not little. I'm Sammy's big brother," Dean said. "You can't be big and little at the same time." And there was his shit-eating grin, diffusing the tension and making both his parents look fondly at each other, and at him. He hadn't known—well, any of that. That he'd learned to play the clown so young to stop his parents from fighting. That his parents had even fought. That Sammy had always meant as much to him as he did now—he'd thought they'd bonded over not having a mother or something.

Young Dean followed his mother in to help wash up, and John went out for "drinks with friends." John looked guilty about it, though, and that made Dean think that John may have had a girlfriend. When Mary stood at the sink—still, not cleaning anything at all—Dean suspected he was right, and she knew. Young Dean only knew his mother was sad and went up and put his arms around her waist. She held him, and Dean felt his chest ache more. It didn't matter that he was the one giving the comfort—in fact, Dean was always more comfortable comforting people then he was being comforted—he would give anything to switch places with his younger self.

Dean was near tears, and looked over at Cas. "Aren't we really early? I think the fire was probably hours from now."

Cas looked around awkwardly. "I thought about what you said, about not wanting to go back in time just to see the worst day of your life. I thought it might help you to see the rest of the day was pretty good."

"I—thank you," Dean said thickly.

Young Dean was drying a dish, but it was the kind of cumbersome, ridiculous helping that little kids do. He even tried drying a plate with his shirt and belly. Mary laughed when she noticed and asked him to find a rattle for Sammy, although Sam looked happy enough watching his family from the chair.

They played for a while after that, and Mary read them both a story. Then came wash up and tooth brushing—a routine that Dean had kept up in exactly the same form until he was ten. He'd made sure Sammy had done it, too. Somehow he'd forgotten it was his mom's routine.

The entire night was like that. He'd never realized—never known—how much of his mother was in him. How much she'd taught him in the short time she'd know him—and how what she'd taught him had made him able to get by taking care of Sammy all those years. Not like John hadn't been there, most of the time, anyway, doing his share—but Dean'd tried his best to get some of the mom stuff right, for Sammy's sake.

Seeing the real thing in action, he knew he'd failed miserably—couldn't help but have failed. He'd been a little kid. How could he be as caring and giving as a mom? He'd wanted ice cream just as bad as Sammy, so he _had_ given him the last scoop, but he hadn't been sweet about it, that's for sure. He didn't want to spend all his time looking after a bratty little kid—he'd wanted to be a kid himself.

But he sure as hell loved his brother, and although his dad had seemed calmer, stronger, lovable—a lot better all-around—when his mother had been alive, and Dean could tell his younger self had idolized him, Dean knew he hadn't learned how to love from him.

He knew he'd learned to love from his mother.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean stared at Cas across the darkened nursery. They'd obviously come a bit early. There were no sounds in the house; all Dean could hear was the noise of baby Sammy's breathing.

He didn't want to see his baby brother in danger.

He didn't want to see his mother die.

"Can we get out of here, Cas?" he asked.

"Dean, I know this is hard. But you came here for a reason. You have to see this," Cas said.

Cas' eyes glittered in the darkness. He didn't seem exactly sympathetic, but he was compassionate. He knew this was hard for Dean, but obviously had no idea how hard or what to do to help him.

Dean braced himself. He had to know if his father was right. But then…he was back in time with an angel. Not exactly definitive proof that he wasn't delusional, was it? This could all be a hallucination. It felt so real. Every detail was so accurate. His imagination couldn't fabricate this; he was almost sure of it.

"Look here, Dean," Cas said. He leaned down and pointed out the wire for the baby monitor. It was radiating heat; Dean could tell even in his insubstantial form.

"The faulty wire?" Dean asked.

"Indeed. In fact, your father got a settlement from the company. There were some other fires—two others resulting in deaths. Not enough for a class action suit, so the settlement wasn't large, and your father gambled the money away before you were ten."

Dean watched in mute horror as the carpet sparked and then was ablaze, quickly moving to the polyester draperies. Dean suddenly heard a young voice. "Mommy!"

"How did I wake up?" he asked Cas. He supposed he was expecting Cas to say something about angels watching over him or that it was fated to happen.

What Cas said was, "Children's sense of smell is highly developed. The smoke woke you."

"Oh," Dean said. He watched the flames, and then his mother was there. She stood in the doorway with young Dean as the flames rose higher. Sammy was wailing by now, and she stared at the flames in frightened awe.

"Stay right here, Dean," she said.

She came into the room and reached Sam. She pulled him into her arms and then placed him in Dean's arms. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" she said.

Dean took his brother and ran as fast as he could without falling. Dean remembered that moment, but had always thought it was a false memory—an imagining of what had happened that night that had been played so many times it had become something he thought he remembered. He had remembered it accurately, though.

"We don't need to see the rest," Cas said.

He touched Dean's forehead. They were suddenly back in the present in Dean's current house, in his bedroom, and he felt that sense of nausea and disconnect he had felt the last time. "Oh god. That is the _worst_ feeling. What happened to her? Why did she die?"

"She didn't want to lose the house. You didn't have any insurance. She tried to beat back the flames with a blanket, but she passed out because of smoke inhalation," Cas said. "Eventually she died from it."

"Thank you for showing me what happened. And thank you for not letting me see…that…"

Cas put a hand awkwardly on Dean's shoulder. "Dean, there is no truth to what your father has been saying. Your brother is a sweet kid who happened to be in the room when the fire started. I suppose in a roundabout way, if Sam hadn't been born, there would not have been a baby monitor to catch fire that night, and perhaps that is the root of your father's need to blame your brother for Mary's death."

"God, he's so mixed up. I don't know how to help him," Dean said. He sat heavily on his bed and lay his head in his hands, not knowing what to do.

"You don't get an angel visit to help you get your Dad into therapy. I'm here because you are potentially a real force for good in this world, and if your father kills your brother, your path will change. If you don't stand up for Sam, he will almost certainly die," Cas said.

"So thinking my Dad is dangerous—I'm not crazy. He really is dangerous?" Dean asked.

"Very. You need to find a way to get Sam away from him, and not just for a little while, either. You need to get him away permanently," Cas said.

"I've been working on a way. I have an apprenticeship lined up with Bobby Singer. I just need to finish school. In a year I'll be eighteen and I can get Sam away from him legally."

"It's not soon enough, Dean. You need to just take him away. Ask Bobby for a place to go. He knows a bunch of people who can help you. Those people will put you on the path you _need_ to be on. There's a lot more to him than meets the eye," he said.

"I've always thought so, but no one else seems to see it," Dean said. Dean got up to get his clothes together, thinking he could get a jump on packing, but something made him freeze. "You know, Sammy and my father don't get along, but John's got him convinced I'm crazy. Sam thinks I imagined that whole confrontation with John—he thinks that I beat John up for no reason, actually. Why would he trust me? He won't go away with me. If he does, he'll call John the first chance he gets. Shit. I can't kidnap the kid. At this point he wouldn't even go on a weekend road trip with me—not without telling Dad, anyway."

"Perhaps the police will intervene," Cas suggested.

"It's my word against John's. Andrew refused to say anything negative about John, Bobby only has suspicions, and the fortune teller is still MIA. And even if anyone believed me, child protection only goes until you're sixteen in this state. If I could convince Sammy that he should lie and say John had hit him…"

"How likely is that to work? He doesn't even believe you that John hit _you_," Cas said.

"I guess all I can do is stay here and try to draw fire away from Sammy. I have to protect Sam, and I won't be able to convince him to leave with me," Dean said.

"Dean, I can't tell the future. But sometimes certain bad things are planted in a timeline in such a way that it leaves a mark in the future and the past. A very bad thing is going to happen in this house. And if you stay here, I can't guarantee that it won't happen to you," Cas said.

Dean looked at the angel thoughtfully. He realized all at once that he really believed the man was an angel for the first time. "I know one thing Cas. No matter what bad thing is going to happen here, it won't happen to Sammy. I don't mind losing my life if it means Sam gets to have his. He's more important."

"Dean—Sam is just a regular child. You are the important one. I was sent here to protect _you_. The angels have plans for you," Cas said.

Dean looked at Cas stubbornly, angry at the man for the first time. "You have plans for me? Well, do something then! Take Dad away. Take him to ancient Rome or Acapulco. Tap his forehead and just disappear him. Why's it on me? You're the one with the power to go back in time. What good is it if you don't use it?"

"I don't have the authority to intervene that way," Cas said.

"You've never broken the rules? Come on! There are lives at stake. Lives you claim mean something to you! Can't you just take him away?"

"No Dean, that's not how things work," he said.

"Jesus! What good are you then?" Dean asked in frustration. He would have curbed his temper if he'd known Cas would disappear in a flutter of wings. "Great, now I have an angel of the lord mad at me. That can't be good."

* * *

The next time Dean saw Andrew was at school the next day, and the other boy turned around and walked away from him the second he saw him.

Dean looked around the empty hallway, trying not to attract a teacher's attention when they both should be in class.

"Andrew! I need to talk to you," he said, as loud as he dared.

Andrew slowed his pace with a show of reluctance. "I told you I didn't want to make those football players mad. I don't want them to think I'm on your side. And I don't particularly want to get involved in anything that friend of yours is up to. What the hell was that, anyway? You damned well disappeared."

"You said you wanted to avoid _them_, not _me_. I didn't start any of that stuff with Phil. In fact, the moment I see him I'm going to set him straight, one way or another. And Cas is cool. He's helping me with something," Dean said.

"You disappeared. Into thin air."

"He's got powers. What can I say? _There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy_."

"Who the hell is Horatio?"

"It's _Hamlet_, dude. We studied it? Last semester?"

"Oh yeah, Horatio was Hamlet's gay best friend," Andrew said.

"Well, Mr. Frost said we always see ourselves in literature," Dean said.

"What's_ that_ supposed to mean?" Andrew rounded on him. Dean hadn't expected him to get so angry.

"Relax, man. I didn't mean anything by it. I wouldn't care if you were, you know," Dean said.

"It's bad enough I have to put up with that shit from everyone else in this school. I shouldn't have to take it from my best friend," he said.

"It was just a joke. I need you on my side. And—oh thank god," Dean breathed.

"What?" Andrew snapped, still annoyed.

"I just realized that you_ saw_ Cas. You saw him disappear. He's real. Oh thank god," Dean said.

"You thought he was a hallucination?"

"I met him when I was committed to a _mental_ hospital. He told me he was an angel and he was helping me because the angels had plans for me. Don't you think that sounds deluded?"

"Jesus, Dean. I can't imagine how that must have felt. Why didn't you talk to me about any of this? Why didn't you tell me you wanted me to rat your father out to the cops, for that matter? Don't you trust me anymore?"

"Look, Andrew, I'm sorry for the way I've handled all of this. It's been a disaster from start to finish. The fact is, no matter how rough my father is on me now and then, I've always loved him and trusted him more than anyone else on earth. He's acting crazy—telling me that Sammy is demonic and evil. It's made me find it hard to trust anyone."

"Sam? Sam's such a good kid. Where did he get that idea?"

"Does it matter? Listen, I need you to come and tell Sam what you saw. He has to believe me that Cas is a real angel. Maybe I can get him to leave town with me after all," Dean said.

"Leave town? Are you serious?"

"John is dangerous. I need to keep my brother safe," Dean said.

"What about your future? What about graduation?"

"Bobby will find a way to help me, even if we go away. Cas too, I hope."

"What about me? Will_ I_ ever see you again?"

"Maybe when you go away to college. I know all the places you applied. I'll find you. Right now I just need you to help me convince Sam that I'm not crazy. Will you please help me?"

Andrew looked rebellious. "I don't think you're doing the right thing. I'll help you go to the police, but I won't help you leave town with Sam. You'd be practically a fugitive, because he's a minor. Isn't that kidnapping?"

"We're both minors, and anyway I don't care! You have to help me. _Please_, Andrew. I need you to do this for me," Dean grabbed Andrew's hand with his right hand and pressed it with his left, staring into his eyes like he would a girlfriend. He felt terrible using the feelings he suspected his friend had for him against him when he totally wasn't gay or interested himself—but at this point he'd do _anything_ to save Sammy. He leaned on the locker and subtly pulled Andrew closer, making his voice husky. "I'll find you some day. I promise," he said.

Andrew's cheeks reddened. "Okay, I'll do it," he whispered.

Dean wasn't sure if it was his effort at a seduction attempt or simply Andrew's loyalty that won out, but he sighed with relief that something was finally going right for him.

"Can you come over tonight?" Dean asked. He realized he was still holding his friend's hand. Well, he'd gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? He released his double hold on his friend's hand, and Andrew let go a moment later.

"I'll be over after dinner," he said.


	12. Chapter 12

That night when Dean made dinner, he kept on looking around at things wondering if it was the last time he would see them. His backyard at sunset. His bedroom. His kitchen. His father.

He had mixed feelings about leaving. He wanted Sam to be safe, but he had no idea where he was going or what would be waiting for him and his brother when they arrived. He only had Cas's word for it that Bobby would even help him get away. He wondered about the mysterious friends of Bobby's who Cas had promised would land him on the right path—the path that the _angels_ wanted him on.

What a scary thought.

Dean wasn't even religious.

After dinner John got up and left, and Sam and Dean were alone.

"I'm going to go over to Amanda's house to study," Sam said.

"You can't go," Dean said. "I have to talk to you. Actually Andrew and I have to talk to you."

"Did you two finally decide to be boyfriends?" Sam smirked.

Dean reddened, remembering the embarrassing scene earlier that day. It might make tonight awkward, but he'd probably never see Andrew again, so it would hardly matter. "Yuck it up, Sammy. This is serious."

"What is this about? Is it about your high school version of _The Outsiders_? Or is it more like Veronica Mars season 2? Does he want me to start making Molotov cocktails?"

"What part of this is serious did you not understand?" Dean asked. He shook his head at his brother's jokes, but he was actually a bit relieved that his brother could still joke. At this point Dean wasn't feeling particularly jocular.

"Is it about Dad?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded shortly and the smile left Sam's face. He started fidgeting. "I don't think I should stay. You told me you were seeing that psychiatrist, and I think that's a good idea. Maybe you should call him now."

"Sam—"

"Dean, I heard you talking to yourself the other day when you were alone in your bedroom. You weren't rehearsing anything. Dad thinks you just hallucinated because of some bad trip, but I know better. You're sick. It's not—it's not the worst thing, Dean. You could have cancer. You could be dying. This is…I know it's bad, but it's doable. I mean, we can handle it. We can handle anything, you me and Dad, as long as we stick together," Sam said.

"I have proof, Sam! When Andrew gets here he'll tell you he saw Cas disappear into thin air."

"What? Who the hell is Cas, and why would she disappear?"

"He. He's an angel. He came here to help me protect you," Dean said.

"Why would I need protecting? Dad doesn't want to hurt me."

"I'm sorry, Sam, but he _does_ want to hurt you. He's sick. He's sick the way you think _I_ am. Cas is an angel who came here to help me. Us. He's real and I know because Andrew saw him."

"An angel? Dean, seriously? I didn't even think you believed in God," Sam said.

Dean realized he was losing his audience. Andrew should have been there by now. "I didn't believe in God until Castiel told me he was an angel of the Lord. I'm a pretty bad candidate for religious mania, don't you think? I always liked being bad better than being good."

"Dean, I don't know why this is happening either," Sam said.

"Promise me you won't go anywhere. I need to call Andrew."

"I'll be here," Sam said earnestly.

Dean went into the other room and dialed Andrew's number. His friend picked up and Dean barked, "What are you still doing there? I thought you were coming over to help me convince Sammy."

"Convince him of what?" Andrew asked.

Dean paused. "You know what I'm talking about. I want you to tell him that you saw Cas. That you saw him disappear. Remember?"

"The last time I saw you I promised you I'd tell the cops that I suspected your Dad beat you. That's all. I don't know who the hell Cas is or what you're talking about, but this doesn't sound right. You think you saw someone disappearing? Dean, this makes me very uncomfortable. Are you sure that…your memory of your father beating you is genuine? Because I don't have any proof at all. Just a lot of bruises on a guy who likes mountain biking and pickup games of football."

"Son of a—that goddamned angel is sabotaging me. Cas, you prick, get down here!" he said to the empty room.

"Angel? Dean, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, Andrew, just tell the police what you know for sure, okay? Just please tell them that my dad is a drunk and he neglects us and there may or may not have been physical abuse. Please?" Dean said.

"I don't think I'm comfortable doing this, Dean. I don't want to get your Dad in trouble. Any other time in the history of our friendship, you would have told me _not_ to do this. You would have freaked out at the thought of Sam going into foster care. I think you're going through something right now, and I shouldn't listen to you. This is all completely out of character."

Dean couldn't process how badly this was going. Cas must have decided to erase Andrew's memory for some reason. Or had the conversation today even taken place? What if it hadn't? If it was a delusion, why had it been so awkwardly filled with gay subtext? God, was he crazy _and _subconsciously gay?

And Cas. Even if Cas wasn't a delusion, which Dean was no longer certain of, how could he trust the man—thing—being—if he kept changing reality and people's memories?

And why couldn't he change reality in a way that was useful—like make his dad normal again?

"Thanks for nothing," Dean muttered.

"Dean, don't hang up! What the hell is wrong? I thought they let you out of that place because you were okay. Let me come over and talk to you about all this," he said.

"I don't think so. I don't think I want to talk to you right now. I asked you for one simple thing and you won't do it. Fine. You don't care about my safety or my brother's safety. That's fine—but I don't want to be friends with someone like that. I think I can do better than a friend who couldn't care less about me," Dean said.

"Dean, please don't say that! I couldn't take that. I need you to be in my life. You're my best friend in the world. I do care about you. I care more than I—more than I want to. Please don't say you won't be my friend. _Please_. No matter what's wrong with you—I love you, okay? Please let me help you."

"I don't want to hurt you, Andrew, but right now my world has narrowed into people who will help me and people who won't. Either call the police and back up my story, or don't bother talking to me again—at least, not until all of this is resolved," Dean said.

Dean was uncomfortably aware that his friend was crying. "Sometimes being a friend means doing things that make the other person unhappy. I've gotta tell someone about this angel stuff, Dean. This can't go on," Andrew said, "I'm so sorry, but you'll thank me for it when you're healthy again. I promise you."

Dean slammed the phone down on the receiver and stared at it like it had bitten him. He knew he'd never thank Andrew for this, not even if in a way he understood where his friend was coming from. He glanced behind him and saw Sam was standing there.

He closed his eyes.

"Dean, you need help," Sam said.

"I do, but not the kind you think I need," Dean said. "I'm going up to my room. Go where you want."

Sam left the house, and Dean was certain he went to find John. Dean knew he should get out of the house before his father came home, but he wanted to see what his father's reaction would be. He wanted to see if his father was still lucid.

After Dean had closed the door to his bedroom, he growled for Cas. "Get out here, you damned dick with wings! Cas, I need you. Amen!"

Cas arrived in a flutter of wings. Dean lunged for him but the other man easily sidestepped his attack. "Dean, I can explain."

"You can explain? What the hell! You're ruining my life!" Dean said.

"I know it must feel that way. Dean, my superiors decided that saving your brother wasn't a priority. They feel you're safer in a mental hospital. Your brother's death at your father's hand would be collateral damage, and would steer you into Bobby's sphere anyway. You wouldn't have anywhere else to go. You might even find a certain amount of peace from saving people the way you couldn't save your brother."

"So Sammy's just irrelevant? No. No way. Save him, or I will never do anything to help angels. _Never_. You got that? I'll join a damned Satanic cult if you don't save my brother, okay?"

"Dean, this isn't what I would choose either, but I have my orders. Just do what they say, or they'll wipe _your_ memory, too. They probably will anyway. They're not exactly inspired with my performance," Cas said.

"What is wrong with you people?" Dean asked. He sat down heavily on his bed, putting his head in his hands.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I honestly wish I could handle this another way."

"Then do it! What's the point of being an angel if you can't even follow your own conscience?"

"I'm sorry. I don't even think they'll let me come to you again. But if you need me, if you pray to me, I'll try to come. I like you, Dean. I respect your loyalty to your brother. I'll do what I can behind the scenes."

"Thanks for nothing," Dean muttered. He didn't even notice Cas leaving. He couldn't help but think that if Cas hadn't come at all, he would probably be better off. He wouldn't know the danger Sam was in, but maybe that would have been a good thing.

Maybe it would have been better to not see it coming.

* * *

It only took John an hour to be informed of how Dean had spent his evening and to make arrangements for his son to return to the mental facility. It was supposedly for diagnosis and treatment followed by release, but Dean had no faith in that outcome. He was sure his father would find a way to make it stick this time, and sadly, for probably for approximately the same reason that Cas had said his superiors had wanted it.

If John thought that Sammy was dangerous, if he was slipping back into his delusion as Cas had said he would, given time, then he would want Dean safe and out of harm's way, too.

Dean's life was suddenly lousy with people doing all the wrong things to protect him, and no one was doing the one thing they _should_ be doing, which was protecting Sammy. Ironically it was John who'd instilled that lesson in Dean, that he should protect Sammy above all else.

Dean had never suspected that one day his father would be the one Sammy would need protection from.

Dean couldn't tell if his father was lucid or not. He'd thought there was a moment when he looked at Sammy...but he couldn't say for sure. It had been foolish of him to stick around, knowing this would be the outcome. He'd thought he'd be able to tell how his father was feeling, but he'd been wrong, and he'd only landed himself in a trap.

The only person who could help him was Bobby, but everyone from the police down to his brother knew that and would look for him at Bobby's place. He had to get away, but he had to be able to keep an eye on the house at the same time. He had to watch Sammy.

John had locked him in his room that night, but Dean knew he could get out. If he couldn't pick the lock he could take the pins out of the hinges. What he needed was a diversion—or a guarantee that neither his father nor his brother would wake up until morning.

For a diversion he would need to trust Bobby or Andrew. He didn't want Bobby to have to lie to the authorities, and for all he knew John had the police watching the house. Andrew probably wouldn't help him even if Dean decided he could trust him. He decided a sound sleep for his family might be the better bet after all.

For the guarantee of sleep, Dean knew he could go to Cas. He wasn't sure if the angel would answer his prayers, but he hoped.

"Cas? It's me, Dean. I need you to do something for me. Please, please make sure my brother and my father don't wake up tonight. Not until morning. Not until their alarms go off. It would really help me out here. Amen," he said.

Cas didn't answer. Dean wondered if that meant that he agreed or not. He'd have to be really quiet, just in case.

Now to get his bedroom door open…


	13. Chapter 13

Dean pulled away from the house, trying to somehow convey normalcy by the way he was driving. He had managed to jimmy his lock without much trouble, and he had taken some clothes and possessions with him so that it looked like he was going to be gone for a while.

Neither his father nor Sammy had woken up. Dean didn't know if that was because Cas had helped him out or because he had been quiet. It didn't matter at this point; he'd gotten away.

And he was headed to the last place anyone would look for him. He only hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

He had to wait in the street for half an hour for Phil's mother to leave, but then he ducked under the willow tree like he'd done a hundred times before, and knocked on his former friend's window.

"Who's there?" Phil asked.

"Dean Winchester. You gonna let me in?"

Phil strained his eyes in the darkness as though he didn't believe Dean's voice and had to see for himself. Finally he nodded and backed away, and Dean hoisted himself in the house through the window.

"You could have used the door. No one's home," Phil said.

"Your mom's on nights?"

"Yep," Phil said. "Dean, what the hell? You haven't talked to me in years. What's going on?"

Dean looked at Phil. He was a big guy with dark hair and pale grey eyes. Too handsome for his own good, but not so handsome he was ever compared to Dean in the looks department. Right now he looked worried—scared actually.

"You don't actually believe that I'm psycho, do you? You think I came here to get some kind of sick revenge for a few stupid comments?" Dean asked.

"I didn't even mean anything by it. I just knew it would bother your little boyfriend," Phil said.

"What is your problem with him, anyway? The three of us used to be best friends. Now all you can do is find different ways to call him queer. What the hell would it matter to you if he was, anyway?"

"What, queer?" Phil sneered.

"Yeah, so what if he is? What would it matter? What if your mom came home one day and said she was a lesbian? Would you hate her? She'd still be your mom," Dean said.

"That's different. You can't choose if your family's gay. I can choose not to be friends with a gay kid like Andrew, and I don't know why you don't do the same," Phil said.

"So what do you think should happen? He should be ostracised and ridiculed by everyone who suspects he's gay, until he's so upset and sad and lonely that he kills himself? Is that what you think he deserves?" Dean asked.

"Well, no…I don't want him to kill himself. He's a nice guy, I guess," Phil sighed heavily. "Look, I was mad at him one time when you kept on hanging out with him instead of the guys, and I called him a fag and—the way he reacted, it was sort of obvious that he probably was gay, or at least wondering if he was, and there was a bunch of guys there, and I just kept the joke up over the years because all the guys around thought it was hilarious."

"I don't know why Andrew didn't tell me how bad it was. I knew the two of you didn't get along anymore, but this week is the first time he told me you've all been bullying him for years—and I don't even think he _meant_ to tell me. How did I not know this?" Dean asked.

"We never did it around you. You'd have kicked our asses. And we'd have deserved it. Dean, you've been in trouble before, but never for being mean. You stand up for what's right even if it gets you in trouble. We knew better than to let you know about it—and I guess Andrew didn't want to come off as weak, and to run to you for help. I kind of respect him for that."

"God, Phil, you're a senior. You can't stop this immature shit?"

"I can stop. I will stop. I'll apologise. But I don't know if the rest of the guys will."

Dean looked at Phil. "You know, I never chose Andrew over you and the rest of the guys, I had to quit the football team to look after my brother because my dad got a job. I couldn't leave him alone after school. You _knew_ that."

"That's what you said but I guess I didn't believe it," he said.

"Jesus. Whatever you think I've done, don't take it out on Andrew. Especially now," Dean said.

"What do you mean especially now?"

"I've got to leave town, and I don't want you saying anything to him or Sammy about me being crazy. Just let it alone, why don't you?" Dean said.

"I wouldn't say anything to Sam. I wouldn't," he said. He sat heavily on his bed. "Honestly, I never would have started at gay stuff if I'd known it would make everyone start saying stuff to him. I don't hate him. I don't even hate gay people. I have an uncle who's gay. It's just kind of—locker room talk, I guess. We say dumb shit all the time. No one else seems to mind. Even Andrew mostly takes it in stride. The only time he got mad was when I said stuff about you."

"Well, stop it. I'm pissed at the guy right now, but he doesn't deserve to be made fun of for being gay. Either he's gay and he can't help being that way, or he's not and he can't help being the kind of guy who everyone thinks is gay. And either way it's none of your business."

"What are you pissed at him for?"

Dean sat down on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands. "He, Sam and my dad think I really am crazy. They want me to get help. They think I'm delusional because I told them I saw an angel."

Phil was silent for a long time, then said, "I believe in angels."

"Really?" Dean asked, "Because I never did before I saw one."

"What was it like? Did she look like your mother?"

Dean remembered why he and Phil had become friends. They had been the two kids who had a dead parent—Dean's mom, and Phil's dad. Of course he believed in angels. Dean had actually known that about him, he'd just forgotten. "He's a guy—or at least, he looks like a guy. He said humans couldn't comprehend the magnificence of his true form or something, and so he was possessing a man. Like, wearing the guy like a suit."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, but get this. This whole thing started when I went to see this psychic in Stillwater to see what my father was seeing her for, and see told me she got a visitation from my mother," Dean said.

"What did your mother say?" Phil said raptly.

"That angels were watching out for me. And then I met this guy claiming to be an angel and he told me my father was dangerous—that he was going to hurt me or my brother—and I just have to protect him. I wanted Andrew to tell the police that he knew my father had hit me, but he wouldn't. I can't let my father hurt Sammy."

"You aren't leaving town, are you?"

Dean was silent. Phil nodded as though Dean's silence confirmed something to him.

"The sad thing is if I could find the psychic—she left town—she could prove that my dad's the crazy one. She's the one who told me—my dad thinks that Sam is like, the son of the devil. Like full on _Rosemary's Baby_."

Phil didn't say anything for a few minutes, then said, "You want anything to eat? We had pizza. There's some slices in the fridge."

Dean closed his eyes. "Are you seriously believing me here? Because I came here hoping I could hide the impala in your mom's barn. I didn't expect you to actually _believe _me."

"Give me your keys, I'll move it into the barn and cover it up. Help yourself to some pizza," he said.

Dean went to the kitchen, surprised at how clearly he remembered the way. He got himself a coke and some pizza and sat at the kitchen table. Phil came in a bit later, and tossed the keys on the table. "You might as well hold onto those," Dean said.

"Why bother? If you're supposed to be out of town I can't be seen driving it, can I?"

"Yeah, I guess. But I trust you with it. You know that's a big deal, right? I love that car," Dean said.

"I remember," Phil said, smiling faintly. "You know, I think I was a better person when I was your friend. I think you told me to stop being a dick about a hundred times when we were growing up. You came here tonight and yelled at me and made me ashamed of myself—is it weird that I'm kind of mad at you that you let me act like a jerk for so long?"

Dean smiled and took another bite of his pizza. "I'm glad we could make peace. I wish you _would_ do something about Andrew. He thinks you hate him."

"I'll make peace with him if you will," Phil said.

Dean scowled. "When this is all over I will. Is it okay if I stay here until like, noon, tomorrow? I need a place to stay tonight."

"I guess there's no point in asking where you're going, is there? Of course you can stay here. And listen, I was thinking about what you said before, about that psychic in Stillwater. I want to see if I can find her for you. I'll try to get her to call the cops and tell them what she knows," he said.

"You'd do that for me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, sure. I'm interested in talking to her. I kind of have my own reasons, you know? What's her business address?"

Dean gave Phil the information and then he and Phil set up a cot in Phil's bedroom. Dean couldn't sleep on the couch because Phil's mother would be back and sleeping by eight the next morning. He didn't want anyone to know he'd been there at all, and he didn't want to have to explain to Phil's mother why he wasn't going to school.

Phil and Dean had set up email accounts no one knew about in order to send each other messages. The next day, Phil sent a message to Dean:

_Buddy,_

_Everyone's looking for you. They're saying really dumb shit like that you're dangerous or going to kill yourself or that you already did. They're talking about dredging the lake and combing the woods with volunteers. I feel kind of guilty about all this manpower going to waste—but I guess we can just chalk it up to a training exercise, right? Anyway, if you found someplace to hide, STAY THERE. And if you need any help from me, email and I will come to you. Anyone sees you they're going to tackle you like a linebacker. I'm going to skip school this afternoon and go to Stillwater and see about Meghan. _

_Oh, I apologised to Andrew. You should have seen his face. He's not about to forgive me or anything, but he seemed happy (if doubtful) that I intended to stop bugging him. He wondered why and I told him we were seniors and needed to start getting past all this immature high school shit. He seemed to accept that. _

_Good luck, Dean. And be careful with your father. I never told you this, but part of the reason I believed you is because John Winchester has always scared the bejesus out of me. Talk about crazy eyes. BE CAREFUL. And email me if you need me._

_Phil_

Dean closed his email and turned off his brother's computer. He'd taken a chance coming home—he'd assumed his dad and brother would be at the police station, and that they would have searched the entire house for him before they went to the police. He went back down to the basement and settled in.

The basement was not the kind of place you could ever convert into a rec room. The ceiling was too low for Dean or John to stand up in, with exposed wiring. The floor was concrete and there was years of boxes and junk—not all of it from their family, as previous renters had left some of their junk. There was also a creepy little room that had been used for coal storage area years ago with a small door that he and Sammy had played it when they were little. Now Dean could hardly fit through—but he put all the food Phil had given him in there so that if anyone came down here they wouldn't find a trace. It was also the place where Dean could hide if anyone came down here—but he didn't want to hang out in there if he didn't have to. It was cold and dank.

He felt a bit creepy, hiding in his own house spying on his family like the damned phantom of the opera or something.

But this way he could say out of an institution and make sure Sammy was safe.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean spent that night trying to find the best part of the basement from which to spy on his family.

"I'm feeling pretty creepy, here, Cas. Any way you could pop down here and let me know I'm doing the right thing?" Dean muttered under his breath. He waited a moment and then sighed. "Of course not."

He strained his ears and could just make out the TV. Sammy and his dad weren't exactly chatty, but they had discussed where he could be earlier in the evening in the kitchen, which was close enough to his hidey-hole that he had heard almost everything. Apparently Bobby had refused to let the police search his house, saying if Dean was at his placed he'd just say that Dean was at his place because he had no reason to lie. Even if Dean was there, it was perfectly legal, so the police had no grounds to search. Of course, this had made John and Sammy suspect that Dean was staying there, and so they weren't overly worried that he was starving on the streets, or hiding in their basement like a freak, for that matter.

He imagined that he didn't need to actually listen to everything they were saying to each other, anyway. If John did anything violent to Sammy, he knew his kid brother wouldn't take it quietly the way he did. He would make a big stink—scream and yell, slam doors…if something bad happened, he was close enough to hear it.

And at least he got out of a history quiz by hiding out in the basement.

Two weeks went by like this. Dean was pretty sure at some point Bobby dropped by to let them know he had no idea where Dean was and they should keep looking—but they apparently just thought he was lying. Dean heard the way Bobby's voice was raised in annoyance as he tried to convince John that he was telling the truth.

"You two don't know Bobby the way I do," Dean muttered.

Also during those two weeks Dean ran out of food. He emailed Phil and got some things delivered to the house during the day when John was out, probably drinking at some bar. It was pretty much all canned and dried goods, and Dean was starting to lose his appetite because it was all cold, all salty, and all canned. Actually not having an appetite was probably a good thing, because he'd hardly had a chance to exercise at all.

Phil had managed to find Mistress Meghan. He had persuaded her he was acting on Dean's behalf, and the two of them had gone to the police together. The police had seemed to believe her about everything, but had made no move to investigate John's parenting of Sammy. Phil had no way of knowing if they had taken the information to child protective services.

"So it's real. Everything he said to me was real. I'm not crazy," Dean said.

"Either that or_ I'm_ a delusion," Phil said, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't think delusions can produce real baked beans," Dean answered dryly.

"Did you really think you were crazy?"

"Not really. But you always hear about how crazy people think they're perfectly sane. And I saw an angel who took me back in time. And now I'm hiding in the basement of my house like a troll under a bridge," Dean said.

"I can see how you could have your doubts," Phil said.

"So how'd it go with Meghan? Could she help you with your problem?"

Phil looked at him sharply. "What makes you think I have a problem?"

"Your face? No, I'm kidding. I just remember you saying you had your own reasons for wanting to talk to a psychic. I thought it might have something to do with your dad."

Phil looked down. "I don't really want to talk about it just now. Maybe later, alright?"

"Sure. Thanks for the food. And for helping me. I owe you big. And lots of money for all of this food. I have money, I just can't get to a bank right now."

"Yeah, that's what they all say," Phil said good-naturedly. "All the kids at school think you're dead or a runaway. I'm actually kind of worried about Andrew. He seems really depressed. I mean, you were never his only friend but he just sits around alone mooning over you being gone. Maybe he's guilty because he feels like he betrayed you or something."

"Maybe I'll call him and leave a message on his home phone. I don't think the police are really looking for me or anything. I'm a kid who's of age to leave home who just had a huge fight with my dad. Screams 'not a police matter' to me," Dean said.

"But if you're the last person who called he can redial you and find out you're at home. Or maybe his phone has that thing where it records every number that called," Phil said.

"Alright, I'll email him. It's not exactly the best way to make peace with somebody, but he's hardly going to trace my IP address or whatever," Dean said.

"Right. Good luck," Phil said.

"Thanks again," Dean said, and shook Phil's hand.

He emailed Andrew a nice message that, while not apologizing or granting forgiveness, showed that Dean still considered him a friend and was still alive and well. He asked Andrew not to show the message to his dad and brother.

He also emailed a message to Bobby asking that he not look for him, and saying that he was okay, and not buried in the backyard or anything nefarious like that. He felt kind of guilty for not doing that sooner, but he'd thought that Bobby would be more believable if he hadn't had to lie. Apparently no one had believed him anyway, so Dean could have let him know he was okay in the first place.

That night he heard Andrew walk in the house and talk with his brother. He was pretty sure he heard his email being read aloud. "That guy really is a bit of a shit," Dean muttered.

"He believes that he is doing the right thing. He firmly believes that without help you will hurt yourself, or descend further into madness," Cas said, his gravelly voice as loud as ever.

"Cas, geez, keep your voice down. You may be able to fly yourself on out of here when someone hears you, but some of us aren't so lucky," Dean said.

"I could fly you out of here with me, if you required," Cas said.

"Don't you think I have a hard enough time pooping on this diet, with this crazy schedule? I have to wait until my brother and father are out of the house. Put that finger away, you are not taking me anywhere!"

"Fine, Dean. Calm yourself. I came here to tell you that your father has gotten much worse. Something will happen soon," Cas said.

Dean stared at Cas. "You mean I could have been at the Holiday Inn all this time and you could have just come and warned me it was all about to go down and flew my ass over here?"

"I didn't know if I'd be able to get away and warn you," Cas said.

"Angels," Dean muttered. "Well, thanks for the warning, I guess. Is there anything else you can tell me? What about what Mistress Meghan told the police? Did that have any impact on them at all?"

"They put what I think is called a flag on calls from your home phone so that officers will respond quickly and treat your father as hostile if any calls come in. Child protective services has informed Sam's teachers to watch for bruises or signs of depression. I believe they are going to 'wait and see'."

"That's crazy," Dean said.

"The police don't arrest people for what _could_ happen—only what _did_ happen," Cas said.

"He did beat me up, and now they have proof," Dean said.

"You swore an official complaint, but without your presence, there's no point in moving forward, because if you are a runaway you wouldn't be able to testify in court."

"Are all angels like lawyers from the planet Vulcan?" Dean asked.

Cas just looked at him.

"Do you think I should go to the police and let them know I'll be around to testify?"

"I don't think there's time for that. This is all going to come to a head—probably tonight. It will take a while for the police to fill out the paperwork. I advise you to do what you're doing."

"Thanks. That's—that's really helpful. I'll try to dial 911 if I think anything is going down. It'll save me having to fight with my dad," Dean said.

"Pray for me if you need to, but I can't promise you that I can come at your call," Cas said.

"Okay, Cas. Thanks," Dean said.

Once again Dean was left alone. He was amazed that the people he'd thought he could count on, like Sammy and Andrew, had let him down. They didn't mean to, but they hadn't believed him. Phil, of all people, was not only believing him, but helping him. He knew that Bobby would have helped him, but he knew that people would go to Bobby to find him first, and something might have gotten out or John might have followed Bobby straight to him.

He only hoped Bobby wasn't angry with him, because that was one thing Dean couldn't take. Somehow, even though he idolized his father, and hated to piss him off, having Bobby angry or disappointed in him was the worst thing he could imagine, far worse, somehow than being at odds with his father.

Dean drifted off to sleep and then woke suddenly without being aware of what had woken him. His heart was pounding, so he imagined it had been a sound.

He tried to control his gasping breath and his pounding heart, because he was having a hard time hearing anything over either.

When he had finally calmed himself and thought that it might have been a dream after all, he heard a loud thud.

Dean's heart started to pound again. It could be anything, from a fist hinting the table to a body hitting the floor.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered. "What's happening up there?"

Now, all he could hear was silence. What had it been?

"Cas? What was that?" he asked.

There was no reply.

Dean closed his eyes. Cas had told him earlier that something bad was going to happen soon. It was late at night—probably a couple of hours past midnight. Unless his father had passed out in front of the TV and fallen out of his chair, there was no reason for there to be loud noises this late at night.

He would have to go into the rest of the house, and risk breaking cover.

Dean suddenly realized he had no weapon. "It's your dad, dude, relax," he muttered, but a part of him admitted how afraid he was. This was not his dad—this was a mental illness that thought hurting Sammy was a good thing—a way to protect the world.

He crept up the stairs, aware now of the location and sound of every squeak in the basement stairs. He opened the door, but only halfway, because he knew from opening it many times in the last two weeks that that door needed to be oiled.

He walked as quickly as he could without making a noise, thankful he was wearing sneakers.

Even though he'd tried to stay clean, he hadn't been able to bath except sporadically when he was sure his father was out of the house for a while, so it was probably going to be his smell that gave him away.

Dean paused in the hallway outside of the kitchen, unsure of where to go. He still couldn't hear anything.

Was it possible his dad had just come home drunk and banged on a bureau as he passed out or something?

Then he heard a crash like glass breaking, and heard his brother yell, "Please Dad, no!"


	15. Chapter 15

When Dean rounded the corner that led into the living room, he was shocked at what he saw.

Sam was tied to a chair, his face swollen and his mouth dripping blood. This must have been going on for a lot longer than Dean knew, and John must have hit Sam several times. John was standing in front of Sam holding a small vial of liquid—holy water, Dean imagined.

Dean didn't know what to do. John hadn't seen him yet; maybe he could get to a phone and call the authorities before this escalated any more. He could tell the moment when Sam saw him standing behind John from the look on Sammy's face, and Dean quickly ducked behind the corner, hoping Sammy wouldn't say anything about his presence.

"What are you looking at, you demon?" John growled.

"I—nothing, Dad. I wasn't looking at anything," Sam said, stumbling over his words. "I'm not a demon Dad. I swear I'm not. Whatever I did wrong, I'm sorry."

John started mumbling—saying something that Dean imagined was probably Latin. An exorcism, again, Dean thought.

Dean snuck into the kitchen and picked up the phone, dialling 911 and leaving the phone off the hook on the counter. He knew that the police would be dispatched after any 911 call, and that there was a flag about John threatening his youngest son, so he didn't take the risk of talking to the dispatcher.

He went back into the living room, not bothering to hide his movements quite as much as before. He was planning on confronting his father.

"Dad, you have to stop this," Dean said as he approached his dad and brother. He tried to catch his brother's eye and give him some kind of reassurance. Sam was whimpering and crying softly, but he pursed his lips and nodded to Dean slightly. He was okay, for now.

"Dean! My god, you're okay! I thought he'd gotten rid of you. I thought he'd killed you or his evil had driven you away," John said.

"Sammy isn't evil," Dean said firmly.

John froze, the happy look on his face dissipating. "You think he's a good person? Dean, you should know what he is. A good person like you…if it was really you, you'd know who he was. _What_ he was. Dean, he's evil. I tried to tell you before…but I get confused sometimes, and I thought he was just my son again for a while. He tricked me. And now you're trying to trick me! Of course you're not here now. The real Dean wouldn't have left me alone with this _thing_."

"Dad, what's happening is that you're confused _now_. You're sick. You think that Sam is bad when really he's just a child. A good kid. He's never had an evil thought, Dad. He's just a normal boy," Dean said.

"Ever since he was born people have been trying to convince me of that, but it's not true. I should have drowned him at birth. He killed your mother, Dean. I know how much you loved your mother," John said, nodding as though Dean had already agreed with him.

"Dad, you weren't even home when Mom died. I was. I know what happened. It was just a stupid accident. It had nothing to do with Sammy. It was just bad luck," Dean said.

"No! You have to let me get rid of him. I've been trying to get the demon to leave him but it won't work. I figured out what's wrong, though. It's that demon blood in him. It makes him evil, so not even an exorcism will do any good. There's only one thing for it. He has to die."

"I won't let you do that, Dad. There's no way I'm going to let you hurt my little brother," Dean said.

John's eyes narrowed. "If you're not with me, you're against me. I know how it is. I'm being tested. I can't let the agents of hell win. If you're really Dean, I'm sorry—but I know what's happening here, and I can't let even you stop me. He has to die. He's going to start the apocalypse."

Dean looked at his father. The man was still only holding holy water—not a great weapon against a person like him, although it might hurt a demon. Dean wished he'd brought a baseball bat or a knife from the kitchen or something, but he had never really believed that his father would hurt him.

John made a move toward Sammy and Dean lunged, tackling his father in a fair approximation of a regulation rugby tackle. John went down, and the holy water rolled away. Dean tried to grab his father's arms before he started to attack, but he flailed wildly beneath his son, bucking him off and rolling up and away into the dining room.

"Shit," Dean said.

He ran to the entrance way—the opposite direction his father had gone—and opened the door. Thank god for laziness. He _had_ left his baseball bat in the closet. He picked it up and then was tackled to the floor and fell. He rolled away, dodging as his father brought a knife down approximately where his neck had been.

"Dad! Please, put down the knife. Dean isn't lying to you. You're confused," Sammy said. He was still tied to the chair, and Dean was grateful. With bats and knives flying through the air, a third party could easily get hurt.

His Dad came close, and Dean let loose a swipe of the bat. It didn't connect with the knife and glanced off John's bicep. Dean knew part of the problem was he'd never really hurt anyone—and it was hard to imagine using lethal force on his own father. John had been to war, and in some ways probably felt like he was back in a war zone again, so he didn't have that problem.

John feigned a couple of thrusts, and then stabbed at Dean's chest. Dean moved to the right and the jabbing knife hit him in his shoulder. The pain wasn't immediate; he didn't feel it at first. What he felt was his left arm go numb and then fall useless. Dean stepped back and the knife, still in his father's hand, pulled out of his flesh and he swung again.

John's face was expressionless, as though he hadn't just stabbed his older son. Realizing this actually gave Dean the extra aggression he needed to swing fully at his father: he could see now that his father was actually so far from his regular self right now that he needed to be taken out.

Dean pulled back as his father swung the knife, and then leaned forward and cracked the bat full speed with his right arm across his father's head, connecting with his temple.

John went down, and stayed down.

Dean knew he should try to find his father's pulse, but just couldn't. He really wanted his father to live, and he couldn't stomach finding out right now if he'd killed him. He had to make sure Sammy was okay first. Dean kicked the knife away from his father and went over to Sammy, setting the bat down and moving to untie his brother.

The bonds were really tight, and Dean could see them cutting off the circulation and cutting into his brother's flesh. "I'm not sure how to cut these off without hurting you," Dean said.

"Do it anyway. I can't feel my hands. That can't be good, right?" Sam asked.

Dean ran over to the knife his father had used and found a part of the thin nylon rope that wasn't too close to his brother's flesh and started sawing at it. Soon it broke, and he pulled Sam's hands away from it. When Sam's hands were free and it front of him, Dean grabbed them and rubbed them briskly, hoping he would get some feeling back.

"Jesus! That hurts," Sam said.

"Should I stop?"

"Probably not," Sam grimaced. Soon Sam was flexing his fingers and pulled them out of Dean's hands, shaking them to get the blood flow going. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I should have listened to you. This is all my fault."

"Don't even say that. I didn't want to believe it either," Dean said.

"I won't ever doubt you again," Sam said. His eyes were filling with tears, and Dean felt his doing the same. It was all over. He pulled his brother into a tight hug.

"Police! Open the door," he heard. Then they were inside, and they surrounded his father's prone body.

He knew they had hours of explanations to make, and both he and Sam probably would have to go to the hospital—but the ordeal was over. He and his brother had made it through alright.

* * *

_A week later_

Dean was folding his brother's laundry and putting it away in his drawers.

Bobby appeared in the doorway. "You don't have to do everything around here, you know. I ain't exactly volunteering to do laundry, but your brother's old enough to do this himself."

"Oh, he's been doing stuff like this for years. I just thought I'd help him out. He's not doing great with the whole 'Dad tried to kill him and is in the nuthouse' thing."

"Well, how could he be? Does he like the head doctor you got him?"

"Yeah. He's the one I met in the nuthouse. He's good," Dean said.

"You can stay here as long as you like. At least until you get your ticket as a mechanic. I'm holding you to that deal we made. There's no way I'm letting you drop out of high school and work at some fast food restaurant to support your brother."

"You don't have to do that. Things have changed for me and I won't hold you to a deal we made before all of this happened," Dean said. "I want to thank you for everything you've done this past week, but you don't have to take Sammy and me in. The police won't bother me about looking after Sammy and not being eighteen. They know I'll be of age in a few months, and they feel guilty for not believing me."

"Things haven't changed for me. This house is your home until you decide to go out on your own. If you decide that. You can make this your home base as long as you want," Bobby said.

Dean swallowed over a sudden lump in his throat. If there was a silver lining to all of this, it was Bobby. "Thanks Bobby. You'll never know how much this means to me."

"I better go get Sam from the doctor's. Maybe I'll have a chat with him—make sure he knows I want him here just as much as I want you here," Bobby said.

Dean found himself getting choked up again. "Thanks Bobby," Dean said. He hadn't really hugged Bobby before that he could remember but when he leaned towards the older man his arms came around Dean naturally enough.

The hug felt so good Dean ignored his healing stab wound and hugged Bobby back, tight.

He stood at his window watching Bobby's car pull out of the junkyard.

"You did very well, Dean. Your actions stopped your father from hurting you or your little brother, and you're on the path the angels want you on, at Bobby's side, too," Cas said.

Dean turned around, strangely unsurprised to see the angel again. "You gonna take credit for this at your weekly angel meeting? Cause you didn't do all that much."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Cas said. His face was expressionless.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean that, Cas. I couldn't have done it without you."

Cas looked confused. "Okay. You're welcome, then. We may see each other again, someday, when the angels have need of you."

He was gone.

Dean looked around the room, and for the first time wondered why angels would ever need _him_.

"Damn," Dean muttered to himself. "This is bad. Really bad."

**Author's Note: That is the end of this particular story. I have considered writing another story in this universe about the same length to do with Phil and how his father died—at the moment it's kind of a loose end—it would end up being a hunt involving Dean, Phil and probably Bobby. Maybe Cas. And I'm kind of fixated on Benny right now, so he might show up briefly. If I end up writing that story, I will either add a chapter on the end of this one that lets followers know what the sequel will be called, or I will just put a part II on this story and continue updating it, so don't stop following this story if such a thing might interest you. Let me know if you would like a sequel. Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know how you felt about it.**


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